GIFT   OF 

THOMAS   RUTHERFORD  BAOOH 
AL  LIBRARY 


FIRESIDE  TRAVELS 


BY 


JAMES    RUSSELL   LOWELL 


WITH    INTRODUCTION 
BY 

WILLIAM   P.   TRENT 


"  Travelling  makes  a  man  sit  still  in  his  old  age  with  satis- 
faction,  and  travel  over  the  'world  again  in  his  chair  and  bed 
by  discourse  and  thoughts" 

—  THE  VOYAGE  OF  ITALY,  BY  RICHARD  LASSELS,  Gent. 


NEW   YORK 

THOMAS    Y.    CROWELL   &   CO. 
PUBLISHERS 


COPYRIGHT,  1906, 
BY  THOMAS  Y.   CROWELL  &  CO. 


To 

w.  w.  s. 

WHO  carves  his  thought  in  marble  will  not  scorn 
These  pictured  bubbles,  if  so  far  they  fly; 
They  will  recall  days  ruddy  but  with  morn, 
Not  red  like  these  late  past  or  drawing  nigh ! 


284770 


THE  greater  part  of  this  volume  was  printed  ten 
years  ago  in  Putnam's  Monthly  and  Graham's  Maga 
zine.  The  additions  (most  of  them  about  Italy) 
have  been  made  up.  as  the  original  matter  was,  from 
old  letters  and  journals  written  on  the  spot.  My 
wish  was  to  describe  not  so  much  what  I  went  to  see. 
as  what  I  saw  that  was  most  unlike  what  one  sees  at 
home.  If  the  reader  find  entertainment,  he  will  find 
all  I  hoped  to  give  him. 


CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

CAMBRIDGE  THIRTY  YEARS  AGO      ....        3 

A  MOOSEHEAD  JOURNAL 5$ 

LEAVES  FROM  MY  JOURNAL  IN  ITALY  AND  ELSEWHERE. 

AT  SEA 101 

IN  THE  MEDITERRANEAN 114 

ITALY 122 

A  FEW  BITS  OF  ROMAN  MOSAIC     .        .        .182 


vii 


INTRODUCTION. 

ONE  would  scarcely  guess  from  its  peaceful,  at 
tractive  title  and  its  genial  contents  that  the  little 
volume  here  presented  began  its  existence  as  a  book 
—  and  existence  as  a  book,  it  should  be  remembered, 
is  something  very  different  from  existence  in  the  form 
of  scattered  articles  in  magazines  —  in  the  fourth 
year  of  that  great  war  between  the  States  in  which 
the  intensely  patriotic  Lowell  took  so  fervid  an  in 
terest.  The  "Fireside  Travels"  of  such  a  man  at 
such  a  time  must  have  been  actually  turned  to  the 
fields  and  thickets  and  swamps  of  Virginia,  where 
Lee  with  his  diminishing  forces  was  bravely  but 
vainly  contesting  the  advance  of  Grant  and  his  well- 
recruited  army.  "The  President's  Policy,"  "Mc- 
Clellan's  Report,"  "The  Rebellion:  its  Causes  and 
Consequences,"  these  items  from  Lowell's  bibliog 
raphy  for  the  year  of  grace  —  or,  less  ironically,  the 
year  of  strife  —  1864  seem  much  more  appropriate 
to  the  epoch  than  a  sketch  of  by-gone  Cambridge, 
a  journal  of  woodland  life,  a  collection  of  traveller's 
notes.  Newly  assumed  editorial  duties  on  the  old 
and  influential  North  American  Review,  where  he 
could  display  some  at  least  of  the  energy  and  acumen 
he  had  shown  as  a  journalist  in  the  anti-slavery  cause, 
had  in  their  selves  nothing  incompatible  with  the 


X  INTRODUCTION. 

character  of  the  times  or  of  the  versatile  man  —  part 
poet,  part  professor,  part  critic,  part  publicist;  but 
extracting  articles  from  ten -year-old  magazines,  re 
vising  them,  and  seeing  them  through  the  press  in  a 
new  form  would  seem  to  be,  mutatis  mutandis,  the 
occupation  of  a  Herrick  rather  than  of  a  Lowell 
during  a  great  civil  war. 

A  moment's  reflection,  however,  shows  us  that  this 
is  an  entirely  superficial  view  of  the  matter.  Lowell 
was  no  exception  to  the  rule  that  in  times  of  stress 
the  spirit  craves  and  needs  the  contrast  and  relaxation 
afforded  by  excursions  of  the  imagination  or  the 
memory  or  both  into  the  enchanted  regions  of  the 
ideal,  whether  of  the  golden  past  or  of  the  golden 
future.  Perhaps,  as  he  corrected  the  proofs  of  his 
new  volume  —  practically  his  seventh  appearance  be 
tween  boards,  but  only  his  second  as  a  writer  of  prose 
-  Lowell's  thoughts  turned  to  old  Cambridge,1  where 
men  destined  to  prominence  in  field  or  council  had 
strolled  as  careless  and  happy  college  youths,  or  to 
a  little  grave  in  Rome,  where  a  tiny  boy  2  lay  buried 
who  could  never  sport  under  the  Harvard  elms  and 
add  academic  lustre  to  an  honored  name. 

Why  "Fireside  Travels"  was  published  when  it 
was,  and  what  Lowell  thought  about  the  book  at  the 
time,  are  matters  upon  which  his  correspondence  and 

1  The  use  of  this  phrase  at  once  recalls  the  "  Old  Cam 
bridge "  of  Colonel  Thomas  Wentworth  Higginson,  to  which 
readers  of  the  first  of  the  essays  in  this  volume  will  do  well  to 
turn. 

'2  Walter  Lowell,  James  Russell  Lowell's  only  son,  born 
22d  Dec.,  1850;  died  gth  June,  1852.  Scudder's  "James 
Russell  Lowell,"  II.,  418. 


INTRODUCTION.  xi 

the  chief  biographical  sources  of  information  appear 
to  throw  no  light  whatsoever.  His  letters  of  1864 
show  plainly  that  his  active  mind  frequently  turned 
away  from  thoughts  of  politics  and  carnage.  He 
congratulates  Mr.  Howells  on  the  latter's  "  Venetian 
letters  in  the  Advertiser '."  He  tells  Professor  Norton 
that  he  is  enjoying  his  vacation  with  proofs  every  day 

—  the  proofs  being  those  of  the  first  volume  of  a 
frustrated  series  of  select  old  plays.     He  drops,  with 
his  accustomed  facility,  into  doggerel  —  of  the  inten 
tional  and  somewhat  bearable  variety  —  but  nowhere 
does  he  say  a  word  about  " Fireside  Travels."     Mr. 
Scudder's  index  does  not  record  any  mention  of  it  in 
the   two   chapters  of  one   hundred   and   fifty   pages 
devoted  to  Lowell's  life  between  1858  and. 1872.    Nor 
is  the  case  much  improved  when  we  turn  back  ten 
years  to  learn  something  about  the  component  parts 
of  the  volume  when  they  first  appeared. 

"A  Moosehead  Journal"  was  published  in  Novem 
ber,  1853,  in  that  promising  but  short-lived  periodical, 
Putnam's  Magazine,  of  which  Lowell's  friend,  C.  F. 
Briggs,  was  one  of  the  editors.  Mr.  Scudder  tells  us 
that  Briggs  received  the  contribution  enthusiastically 
and  that  it  "was  in  effect  a  journal,  sent  home"  to 
Lowell's  wife,  "of  an  excursion  made  by  Lowell  in 
the  summer  of  1853  w^n  m*s  nephew  Charles."  l  In 
September  the  author,  writing  to  his  editor,  remarked : 

—  "Don't  cut  it  in  halves.     It  will  make  but  eleven 

1  The  "  Young  Telemachus,"  General  Charles  Russell 
Lowell,  Jr.,  who  fell  at  the  battle  of  Cedar  Creek.  His  widow, 
Mrs.  Josephine  Shaw  Lowell,  became  one  of  the  best-known 
philanthropists  of  New  York  City. 


xii  INTRODUCTION. 

pages,1  and  is  much  better  all  together.  If  it  is  dull, 
the  public  won't  thank  you  for  making  two  doses  of  it; 
if  entertaining,  they  will  be  glad  to  have  it  all  at  once." 
One  scarcely  believes  that  Lowell  really  thought  his 
article  dull;  one  has  no  doubt  whatsoever  as  to  his 
editorial  sagacity. 

"Cambridge  Thirty  Years  Ago"  appeared  in 
Putnam's  for  April  and  May,  1854.  It  then  bore 
the  title  which  ten  years  later  Lowell  reserved  for  his 
entire  volume  —  those  seductive  words,  "  Fireside 
Travels."  According  to  Mr.  Scudder,  the  germ  of 
the  paper  was  a  sketch  of  the  painter -poet  Washington 
Allston,  which,  in  September,  1853,  Lowell  began  for 
Putnam's,  but  did  not  put  to  separate  use.  The 
verses  to  Menenius,  happily  few  in  number,  were 
taken  from  another  contribution  intended  for  Put 
nam's,  the  unprinted  portion  of  the  long  serio-comic 
poem  "Our  Own,"  which  Mr.  Scudder,  curiously 
enough,  conceived  to  have  been  written  in  Alexan 
drines,  and  the  readers  of  Putnam's  in  1853,  ^ess 
curiously,  wished  discontinued  as  soon  as  possible. 
Writing  to  Briggs,  Lowell  affirmed,  as  well  he  might 
without  conceit,  that  his  sketch  of  Cambridge  was 
done  as  nobody  but  he  could  do  it,  for  no  one  else 
knew  the  old  town  so  well.  "Tt  is  better  than  that 
Moosehead  thing,"  he  wrote,  "and  Maria  liked  it." 
The  last  three  words  have  a  pathos  of  their  own,  when 
we  remember  that  the  lovely  and  talented  wife,  who 
had  done  so  much  to  keep  Lowell's  genius  from 
diffusing  itself  in  flats  and  shallows,  "went  home,"  to 
1  It  made  over  twelve. 


INTRODUCTION.  xiii 

use  her  husband's  words,  on  October  27,  1853.  She 
never  saw  in  print  the  delightful  essay  that  had 
charmed  her  in  its  unfinished  state. 

Neither  did  she  see  the  printed  records  of  the 
Italian  journey  she  had  made  with  her  husband  and 
children  in  1851  and  1852,  for  they  were  first  published 
as  "Leaves  from  my  Italian  Journey"  in  Graham's 
Magazine  for  April,  May,  and  July,  1854.  But  she 
had  seen  the  land  of  romance  with  him,  even  if  she 
had  buried  her  little  son  there,  and  Lowell  had  doubt 
less  read  to  her  the  interesting  letters  to  friends  at 
home  which  served  as  first  sketches  for  some  pages  of 
the  essays.  She  had  also  seen  her  husband  and  the 
Edelmann  Storg  (the  sculptor  William  Wetmore  Story) 
with  their  friends  act  in  two  amateur  representations 
of  "A  Midsummer  Night's  Dream,"  and  to  have  seen 
Lowell,  in  the  Eternal  City,  taking  the  parts  of  Pyra- 
mus  and  Bottom  must  have  afforded  much  more 
entertainment  than  anybody  ever  got  or  is  likely  to 
get  out  of  Lowell's  writings  about  Italy,  full  of  clever 
ness  though  these  undoubtedly  are. 

It  was  not  to  be  expected  that  when  he  gathered 
them  into  a  book,  Lowell  would  leave  his  articles 
precisely  as  they  stood  ten  years  before.  On  the 
whole,  however,  he  made  comparatively  few  changes 
of  importanre  in  "Cambridge  Thirty  Years  Ago"  and 
in  "A  Moosehead  Journal,"  nor  in  later  revisions  was 
anything  essential  added.  A  reference  to  Beowulf,  a 
quotation  from  Fuller,  may  be  present  or  absent  with 
out  the  average  reader  being  the  wiser  or  thinking  of 
Lowell  as  much  less  than  the  widest  ranger  among 


xiv  INTRODUCTION. 

books  and  the  best  quoter  from  them  to  be  found  in 
the  ranks  of  American  men  of  letters.  With  "  Leaves 
from  my  Journal  in  Italy  and  Elsewhere"  the  case  is 
somewhat  different.  The  two  sections  entitled  "At 
Sea"  and  "In  the  Mediterranean"  do  not  appear  to 
have  been  printed  in  Graham's,  and  they  are  not  to 
be  identified,  at  least  under  those  titles,  in  Mr.  Scud- 
der's  bibliography.  Of  the  remainder,  about  twenty- 
five  pages  that  pleased  the  reader  of  1864  were  denied, 
for  some  reason  or  other,  to  the  reader  of  1854. 
Among  the  added  pages  were  the  reflections  on 
"material  antiquity"  that  close  "A  Few  Bits  of  Roman 
Mosaic,"  the  characteristically  bold  confession  with 
regard  to  Michael  Angelo  in  the  same  essay,  and  the 
amusing  incident  of  the  Italian  and  the  dead  parrot 
which  he  was  willing  to  give  up  to  the  customs  officer, 
not  the  least  diverting  digression  in  "Italy."  Later, 
Lowell  added  a  few  pages  and  omitted  one  of  the  most 
atrocious  of  all  his  witticisms,  that  about  Milton's 
cataract,  which,  however,  was  revived  to  plague  the 
American  poet's  memory  in  an  article  devoted  to  him 
nearly  thirty  years  afterwards  by  a  noted  British 
critic.  We  may  now  put  bibliography  behind  us 
with  the  remark  that,  when  he  collected  his  essays, 
the  Harvard  professor  was  enabled  to  correct  his 
Italian,  and,  in  at  least  one  case,  to  get  rid  of  a  false 
gender  in  Latin  by  using  an  equivalent  English  noun. 
Linguistic  facility  is  a  great  blessing,  but  it  has  its 
drawbacks. 

What  now  is  to  be  said  in  praise  of  a  book  which 
for  more  than  forty  years  has  charmed  thousands  of 


INTRODUCTION.  XV 

readers  who  never  saw  Lowell,  nearly  as  much  as  it 
did  the  artist  Story  when,  at  the  close  of  1864,  he  read 
it  in  a  London  edition  and  recalled  the  delightful  ex 
cursions  he  had  taken  with  its  author?  Certainly 
there  is  nothing  new  to  say  about  it.  The  Lowell  who 
had  already  revealed  himself  as  a  poet,  a  humorist, — 
there  are  many  people  who  think  "The  Biglow 
Papers"  his  greatest  achievement, —  a  lover  of  books, 
showed  himself  here  again  in  these  three  roles  and  in 
a  fourth  already  familiar  and  the  most  natural  of  all, 
that  of  a  genuinely  patriotic  American,  who  could 
appreciate  what  Europe  had  to  offer  without  waver 
ing  in  his  belief  that  his  native  land  was  the  fairest 
and  most  favored  under  the  sun.  This  Lowell,  as 
well  as  Lowell  the  brilliant  journalist  and  editor  and 
the  wide-awake  traveller  and  genial  companion,  had 
been  known  for  years  before  "Fireside  Travels"  ap 
peared,  and  was  to  be  known  as  a  favorite  figure  to 
Americans  for  many  a  year  to  come.  As  has  been 
said,  however,  a  book  makes  a  different  sort  of  im 
pression  from  that  produced  by  magazine  articles,  and 
it  is  probable  that  the  publication  of  "Fireside 
Travels"  did  something  to  reveal  Lowell,  the  essayist, 
to  the  world.  When  "Among  my  Books"  appeared 
in  1870  and  "My  Study  Windows"  in  1872,  the  role 
of  authoritative  critic  was  added  to  that  of  essayist, 
and  American  literature  could  boast  another  piose 
writer  of  eminence.  Perhaps  the  success  of  "Fire 
side  Travels"  had  something  to  do  with  the  writing  of 
"A  Great  Public  Character,"  "My  Garden  Acquaint 
ance,"  and  "A  Good  Word  for  Winter,"  which  would 


xvi  INTRODUCTION. 

not  seem  out  of  place  in  that  volume,  as  well  as  with 
the  writing  of  the  more  technically  critical  essays  on 
Dryden  and  Chaucer  that  appeared  in  the  later 
collections. 

So  much  at  least  we  can  say  with  safety.  It  is 
probably  still  too  early  to  pronounce  with  confidence 
how  much  of  these  volumes  will  weather  all  the  shocks 
of  time,  or  how  far  Lowell,  whose  brilliance  no  one 
can  doubt,  will  prove  a  satisfying  and  so  a  standard 
or  classic  writer  of  prose.  It  is  hard,  indeed,  to 
imagine  that  a  time  will  ever  come  when  the  essential 
portions  of  "Cambridge  Thirty  Years  Ago"  —the 
pictures  of  the  barber  and  the  deacons  and  the  vener 
able  artist  and  the  old  President  and  the  Greek  Pro 
fessor  crossed  in  love  —  will  cease  to  delight.  As  long 
as  Harvard  is  Harvard  and  New  England  is  New  Eng 
land,  and  as  long  as  men  and  women  in  other  parts 
of  America  reverence  them  for  the  contributions  they 
have  made  to  the  national  life,  so  long,  it  would  seem, 
will  Lowell's  exquisitely  loyal  and  tenderly  humorous 
pages  be  read  with  affectionate  reverence.  It  would 
be  a  little  rash,  however,  to  say  as  much,  or  nearly  as 
much,  about  the  journal  and  the  notes  of  the  ebullient 
traveller.  In  1864  they  had  their  value.  They  con 
tinued,  though  in  a  very  individual  fashion,  the  work 
begun  by  Irving  and  Cooper  and  Willis  and  Long 
fellow  and  Bryant  —  the  work  of  spreading  before 
eager  American  eyes  the  treasures  of  European  cul 
ture  and  of  opening  those  same  eyes  to  the  natural 
beauties  of  the  new  world  itself.  Lowell  was  a  man 
of  wider  and  richer  culture,  of  more  active  imagina- 


INTRODUCTION.  xvii 

tion,  of  livelier  fancy,  and,  it  is  needless  to  say,  of 
more  exuberant  humor  than  any  of  his  predecessors, 
or  of  his  contemporaries,  like  Bayard  Taylor  and 
Curtis.  But  what  he  did  in  "  A  Moosehead  Journal" 
and  in  his  Italian  notes,  while  it  differed  immensely 
in  manner,  did  not  differ  essentially  in  purpose  from 
what  they  had  done  and  were  doing.  Their  work  has 
aged,  mainly  because  a  better-educated  and  a  more 
widely  travelled  generation  has  outgrown  it,  or  at 
least  has  need  for  new  interpreters.  It  seems  no 
treason  to  Lowell's  memory  to  say-  that  protably  his 
similar  work  will  be  outgrown,  if  it  has  not  teen 
superseded  already.  Its  form,  sprightly  and  clever 
as  it  is,  can  hardly  save  it,  for  each  generation  has  its 
own  standards  of  sprightliness  and  cleverness. 

There  is  a  point,  however,  that  must  be  considered 
in  this  connection  before  we  can  be  warranted  in 
relying  to  any  great  extent  upon  the  above  line  of 
reasoning.  Lowell's  descriptions  of  his  experiences, 
in  Maine  and  Italy  may  belong  to  a  category  of  litera 
ture  that  speedily  becomes  obsolete ;  but  they  are  full 
of  an  element  that  is  far  from  perishable  and  that  has 
saved  many  a  piece  of  writing  the  form  and  general 
substance  of  which  seemed  to  doom  it  to  destruction. 
It  was  not  the  beauties  and  mysteries  of  nature  or 
the  charm  and  power  of  an  old  civil izaticn  that 
specially  riveted  the  eyes  and  stimulated  the  thoughts 
of  Lowell  the  traveller.  It  was  the  men  rnd  women 
he  met.  Just  as  with  "  Cambridge  Thirty  Years  A  go," 
it  is  the  human  interest  of  "A  Moosehead  Journal" 
and  "Leaves  from  My  Journal,"  that  keeps  one  read- 


Xviii  INTRODUCTION. 

ing  them  to  the  last  page.  It  is  Uncle  Zeb,  and  Mr. 
X,  and  Leopoldo,  and  the  stout  Italian  landlady  that 
stand  out,  with  the  old  Cambridge  worthies,  when  we 
have  closed  the  book.  They  seem  as  human  to  us  as 
they  doubtless  did  to  the  magazine  readers  of  1854. 1 
But  if  they  are  human  to  us,  will  they  not,  in  all  proba 
bility,  be  human  to  our  grandchildren  ?  Probably  they 
will  be,  to  such  at  least  of  them  as  turn  to  this  book 
of  Lowell's;  but  questions  of  style  and  of  the  propor 
tion  of  interesting  to  uninteresting  material  will  enter 
into  the  determination  of  the  number  of  readers  "  Fire 
side  Travels"  will  have  two  generations  hence.  That, 
however,  is  a  long  time  to  look  ahead. 

It  is  almost  needless  to  say  that  the  most  interest 
ing  exhibition  of  human  nature  given  in  "  Fireside 
Travels"  is  made  by  Lowell  himself.  How  irresist 
ible  he  is  in  his  good  spirits  and  his  wit;  how  im 
possible  it  is  for  him  to  check  his  poetic  fancy,  which 
.suggests  figures  of  speech  altogether  too  numerous 
and  unrestrained  for  the  comfort  of  sober,  decorous 
prose;  how  generous  to  a  fault  he  is  in  quoting  from 
the  old  books  he  loves  and  wishes  to  recommend  to 
his  readers.  It  is  fortunate  that  " Fireside  Travels" 
is  not  included  among  the  classics  that  must  be  an 
notated  for  the  use  of  schools,  since  it  would  be  diffi 
cult  to  find  editors  sufficiently  widely  read  to  track 
the  divagating  Lowell  into  all  his  by-paths  of  learn 
ing.  Probably  if  he  had  quoted  less,  if  he  had  for- 

l  It  is  a  pleasure  to  find  that  Mr.  Leon  H.  Vincent  in  his 
recent  book,  "  American  Literary  Masters,"  has  emphasized 
this  point,  which  Lowell  himself  made  at  the  close  of  "A 
Moosehead  Journal." 


INTRODUCTION.  XIX 

borne  to  drop  into  verse  of  his  own  composing,  if  he 
had  ruthlessly  cut  out  the  more  facile  of  his  epigrams, 
such  as  "our  glass  of  naval  fashion  and  our  mould  of 
aquatic  form,"  he  might  have  given  us  a  book  less 
amenable  to  critical  censure;  but,  then,  would  he 
have  given  us  so  much  of  his  irresponsible,  attractive 
self?  He  might  easily  have  improved  his  prose  style, 
yet  in  making  it  what  it  is  now  the  fashion  to  call 
" distinguished,"  he  might  still  more  easily  have  de 
prived  it  of  the  human,  unaffected  qualities  that 
render  it  alluring  to  many  readers,  despite  its  technical 
imperfections.  For  one  phrase  like  "the  ever-renew 
ing  unassuetude"  that  we  have  to  forgive,  there  are 
dozens  that  we  wish  to  remember.  We  continue,  after 
Lowell,  to  assert  that  "hitherto  Boswell  is  quite  as 
unique  as  Shakespeare."  We  admire  the  epigram 
matic  power  displayed  in  "Morals  can  never  be  safely 
embodied  in  the  constable,"  and  we  forget  that  a  few 
lines  lower  the  humor  of  "that  model  of  the  hospitable 
old  English  gentleman,  Mr.  Comus!"  is  very  forced 
and  thin. 

Lowell  was  unfortunate  in  this  book  on  two  occa 
sions,  when  dealing  with  Milton,  because  he  forgot 
that  there  are  times  when  the  instincts  of  the  gentle 
man  must  act  as  a  posse  to  apprehend  and  restrain 
the  lawless  sallies  of  the  wit.  But,  as  a  rule,  his 
references  to  writers  and  books  show  what  a  sure 
instinct  and  what  a  sound  equipment  he  had  for 
criticism,  and  the  independence  with  which  he  ex 
presses  his  judgments  is  often  truly  comforting.  He 
gives  proofs  of  his  genuine  democracy,  of  his  sym- 


XX  INTRODUCTION. 

pathy  with  the  higher  features  of  mediaeval  civiliza 
tion,  of  his  interest  in  political  reform,  of  his  fine 
capacity  for  friendship.  In  short,  the  Lowell  of  the 
" Fireside  Travels"  is  in  all  essential  respects  a  large, 
genial  nature  full  of  life  and  imagination  and  culture, 
and  ready  to  ripen  into  the  critic,  scholar,  and  pub 
licist,  who,  in  his  old  age,  commanded  the  respect  of 
the  English-speaking  world. 

W.  P.  TRENT. 


FIRESIDE   TRAVELS. 


FIRESIDE   TRAVELS. 


CAMBRIDGE  THIRTY   YEARS  AGO. 

A  MEMOIR  ADDRESSED  TO  THE   EDELMANN   STORG  IN 
ROME. 

IN  those  quiet  old  winter  evenings,  around  our 
Roman  fireside,  it  was  not  seldom,  my  dear  Storg, 
that  we  talked  of  the  advantages  of  travel,  and  in 
speeches  not  so  long  that  our  cigars  would  forget  their 
fire  (the  measure  of  just  conversation)  debated  the 
comparative  advantages  of  the  Old  and  New  Worlds. 
You  will  remember  how  serenely  I  bore  the  imputa 
tion  of  provincialism,  while  I  asserted  that  those 
advantages  were  reciprocal;  that  an  orbed  and  bal 
anced  life  would  revolve  between  the  Old  and  the 
New  as  opposite,  but  not  antagonistic  poles,  the  true 
equator  lying  somewhere  midway  between  them.  I 
asserted  also,  that  there  were  two  epochs  at  which 
a  man  might  travel,  —  before  twenty,  for  pure  enjoy 
ment,  and  after  thirty,  for  instruction.  At  twenty, 
the  eye  is  sufficiently  delighted  with  merely  seeing; 
new  things  are  pleasant  only  because  they  are  not 
old;  and  we  take  everything  heartily  and  naturally 
in  the  right  way,  —  for  even  mishaps  are  like  knives, 
3 


4  FIRESIDE    TRAVELS. 

that  either  serve  us  or  cut  us,  as  we  grasp  them  by  the 
blade  or  the  handle.  After  thirty,  we  carry  along 
our  scales,  with  lawful  weights  stamped  by  experi 
ence,  and  our  chemical  tests  acquired  by  study,  with 
which  to  ponder  and  assay  all  arts,  institutions,  and 
manners,  and  to  ascertain  either  their  absolute  worth 
or  their  merely  relative  value  to  ourselves.  On  the 
whole,  I  declared  myself  in  favor  of  the  after  thirty 
method,  —  was  it  partly  (so  difficult  is  it  to  distin 
guish  between  opinions  and  personalities)  because  I 
had  tried  it  myself,  though  with  scales  so  imperfect 
and  tests  so  inadequate?  Perhaps  so,  but  more  be 
cause  I  held  that  a  man  should  have  travelled  thor 
oughly  round  himself  and  the  great  terra  incognita 
just  outside  and  inside  his  own  threshold,  before 
he  undertook  voyages  of  discovery  to  other  worlds. 
"  Far  countries  he  can  safest  visit  who  himself  is 
doughty,"  says  Beowulf.  Let  him  first  thoroughly 
explore  that  strange  country  laid  down  on  the  maps 
as  SEAUTON;  let  him  look  down  into  its  craters,  and 
find  whether  they  be  burnt-out  or  only  smouldering; 
let  him  know  between  the  good  and  evil  fruits  of  its 
passionate  tropics;  let  him  experience  how  health 
ful  are  its  serene  and  high -lying  table-lands;  let  him 
be  many  times  driven  back  (till  he  wisely  consent  to 
be  baffled)  from  its  speculative  northwest  passages 
that  lead  mostly  to  the  dreary  solitudes  of  a  sunless 
world,  before  he  think  himself  morally  equipped  for 
travels  to  more  distant  regions.  But  does  he  com 
monly  even  so  much  as  think  of  this,  or,  while  buying 
amplest  trunks  for  his  corporeal  apparel,  does  it  once 


CAMBRIDGE    THIRTY    YEARS  AGO.          5 

occur  to  him  how  very  small  a  portmanteau  will 
contain  all  his  mental  and  spiritual  outfit?  It  is 
more  often  true  that  a  man  who  could  scarce  be  in 
duced  to  expose  his  unclothed  body  even  to  a  village 
of  prairie-dogs,  will  complacently  display  a  mind  as 
naked  as  the  day  it  was  born,  without  so  much  as  a 
fig-leaf  of  acquirement  on  it,  in  every  gallery  of 
Europe,  — 

"  Not  caring,  so  that  sumpter-horse,  the  back, 
Be  hung  with  gaudy  trappings,  in  what  coarse, 
Yea,  rags  most  beggarly,  they  clothe  the  soul." 

If  not  with  a  robe  dyed  in  the  Tyrian  purple  of  imagi 
native  culture,  if  not  with  the  close-fitting,  work -day 
dress  of  social  or  business  training,  —  at  least,  my 
dear  Storg,  one  might  provide  himself  with  the  merest 
waist-clout  of  modesty ! 

But  if  it  be  too  much  to  expect  men  to  traverse 
and  survey  themselves  before  they  go  abroad,  we  might 
certainly  ask  that  they  should  be  familiar  with  their 
own  villages.  If  not  even  that,  then  it  is  of  little 
import  whither  they  go;  and  let  us  hope  that,  by 
seeing  how  calmly  their  own  narrow  neighborhood 
bears  their  departure,  they  may  be  led  to  think 
that  the  circles  of  disturbance  set  in  motion  by  the 
fall  of  their  tiny  drop  into  the  ocean  of  eternity,  will 
not  have  a  radius  of  more  than  a  week  in  any  direc 
tion;  and  that  the  world  can  endure  the  subtraction 
of  even  a  justice  of  the  peace  with  provoking  equa 
nimity.  In  this  way,  at  least,  foreign  travel  may  do 
them  good,  —  may  make  them,  if  not  wiser,  at  any 
rate  less  fussy.  Is  it  a  great  way  to  go  to  school, 


6  FIRESIDE    TRAVELS. 

and  a  great  fee  to  pay  for  the  lesson  ?  We  cannot  give 
too  much  for  the  genial  stoicism  which,  when  life  flouts 
us,  and  says,  Put  that  in  your  pipe  and  smoke  it !  can 
puff  away  with  as  sincere  a  relish  as  if  it  were  tobacco 
of  Mount  Lebanon  in  a  narghileh  of  Damascus. 

After  all,  my  dear  Storg,  it  is  to  know  things  that 
one  has  need  to  travel,  and  not  men.  Those  force  us 
to  come  to  them,  but  these  come  to  us,  —  sometimes 
whether  we  will  or  no.  These  exist  for  us  in  every 
variety  in  our  own  town.  You  may  find  your  an 
tipodes  without  a  voyage  to  China;  he  lives  there, 
just  round  the  next  corner,  precise,  formal,  the  slave  of 
precedent,  making  all  his  teacups  with  a  break  in  the 
edge,  because  his  model  had  one,  and  your  fancy 
decorates  him  with  an  endlessness  of  airy  pigtail. 
There,  too,  are  John  Bull,  Jean  Crapaud,  Hans 
Sauerkraut,  Pat  Murphy,  and  the  rest. 

It  has  been  well  said: 

"He  needs  no  ship  to  cross  the  tide, 
Who,  in  the  lives  around  him,  sees 
Fair  window-prospects  opening  wide 
O'er  history's  fields  on  every  side, 
Rome,  Egypt,  England,  Ind,  and  Greece. 

"  Whatever  moulds  of  various  brain 
E'er  shaped  the  world  to  weal  or  woe, 
Whatever  empires'  wax  and  wane, 
To  him  who  hath  not  eyes  in  vain, 
His  village-microcosm  can  show." 

But  things  are  good  for  nothing  out  of  their  natural 
habitat.  If  the  heroic  Barnum  had  succeeded  in 
transplanting  Shakespeare's  house  to  America,  what 
interest  would  it  have  had  for  us,  torn  out  of  its  appro- 


CAMBRIDGE    THIRTY   YEARS  AGO.          J 

priate  setting  in  softly-hilled  Warwickshire,  which 
showed  us  that  the  most  English  of  poets  must  be  born 
in  the  most  English  of  counties  ?  I  mean  by  a  Thing 
that  which  is  not  a  mere  spectacle,  that  which  some 
virtue  of  the  mind  leaps  forth  to,  as  it  also  sends  forth 
its  sympathetic  flash  to  the  mind,  as  soon  as  they  come 
within  each  other's  sphere  of  attraction,  and,  with 
instantaneous  coalition,  form  a  new  product,  — 
knowledge. 

Such,  in  the  understanding  it  gives  us  of  early 
Roman  history,  is  the  little  territory  around  Rome, 
the  gentis  cunabula,  without  a  sight  of  which  Livy 
and  Niebuhr  and  the  maps  are  vain.  So,  too, 
one  must  go  to  Pompeii  and  the  Museo  Borbonico,  to 
get  a  true  conception  of  that  wondrous  artistic  nature 
of  the  Greeks,  strong  enough,  even  in  that  petty 
colony,  to  survive  foreign  conquest  and  to  assimilate 
barbarian  blood,  showing  a  grace  and  fertility  of  in 
vention  whose  Roman  copies  Rafaello  himself  could 
only  copy,  and  enchanting  even  the  base  utensils  of 
the  kitchen  with  an  inevitable  sense  of  beauty  to  which 
we  subterranean  Northmen  have  not  yet  so  much  as 
dreamed  of  climbing.  Mere  sights  one  can  see  quite 
as  well  at  home.  Mont  Blanc  does  not  tower  more 
grandly  in  the  memory  than  did  the  dream-peak 
which  loomed  afar  on  the  morning  horizon  of  hope, 
nor  did  the  smoke-palm  of  Vesuvius  stand  more  erect 
and  fair,  with  tapering  stem  and  spreading  top,  in  that 
Parthenopean  air,  than  under  the  diviner  sky  of 
imagination.  I  know  what  Shakespeare  says  about 
homekeeping  youths,  and  I  can  fancy  what  you  will 


8  FIRESIDE    TRAVELS. 

add  about  America  being  interesting  only  as  a  phe 
nomenon,  and  uncomfortable  to  live  in,  because  we 
have  not  yet  done  with  getting  ready  to  live.  But 
is  not  your  Europe,  on  the  other  hand,  a  place  where 
men  have  done  living  for  the  present,  and  of  value 
chiefly  because  of  the  men  who  had  done  living  in  it 
long  ago  ?  And  if  in  our  rapidly-moving  country  one 
feel  sometimes  as  if  he  had  his  home  on  a  railroad 
train,  is  there  not  also  a  satisfaction  in  knowing  that 
one  is  going  somewhere?  To  what  end  visit  Europe, 
if  people  carry  with  them,  as  most  do,  their  old  paro 
chial  horizon,  going  hardly  as  Americans  even,  much 
less  as  men?  Have  we  not  both  seen  persons  abroad 
who  put  us  in  mind  of  parlor  gold-fish  in  their  vase, 
isolated  in  that  little  globe  of  their  own  element,  in 
capable  of  communication  with  the  strange  world 
around  them,  a  show  themselves,  while  it  was  always 
doubtful  if  they  could  see  at  all  beyond  the  limits  of 
their  portable  prison  ?  The  wise  man  travels  to  dis 
cover  himself;  it  is  to  find  himself  out  that  he  goes 
out  of  himself  and  his  habitual  associations,  trying 
everything  in  turn  till  he  find  that  one  activity,  that 
royal  standard,  sovran  over  him  by  divine  right, 
toward  which  all  the  disbanded  powers  of  his  nature 
and  the  irregular  tendencies  of  his  life  gather  joyfully, 
as  to  the  common  rallying-point  of  their  loyalty. 

All  these  things  we  debated  while  the  ilex  logs  upon 
the  hearth  burned  down  to  tinkling  coals,  over  which 
a  gray,  soft  moss  of  ashes  grew  betimes,  mocking  the 
poor  wood  with  a  pale  travesty  of  that  green  and 
gradual  decay  on  forest-floors,  its  natural  end.  Al- 


CAMBRIDGE    THIRTY   YEARS   AGO.          9 

ready  the  clock  at  the  Cappuccini  told  the  morning 
quarters,  and  on  the  pauses  of  our  talk  no  sound 
intervened  but  the  muffled  hoot  of  an  owl  in  the  near 
convent-garden,  or  the  rattling  tramp  of  a  patrol  of 
that  French  army  which  keeps  him  a  prisoner  in  his 
own  city  who  claims  to  lock  and  unlock  the  doors  of 
heaven.  But  still  the  discourse  would  eddy  round 
one  obstinate  rocky  tenet  of  mine,  for  I  maintained, 
you  remember,  that  the  wisest  man  was  he  who 
stayed  at  home;  that  to  see  the  antiquities  of  the  Old 
World  was  nothing,  since  the  youth  of  the  world  was 
really  no  farther  away  from  us  than  our  own  youth; 
and  that,  moreover,  we  had  also  in  America  things 
amazingly  old,  as  our  boys,  for  example.  Add,  that 
in  the  end,  this  antiquity  is  a  matter  of  comparison, 
which  skips  from  place  to  place  as  nimbly  as  Emer 
son's  Sphinx,  and  that  one  old  thing  is  good  only  till 
we  have  seen  an  older.  England  is  ancient  till  we  go 
to  Rome;  Etruria  dethrones  Rome,  but  only  to  pass 
this  sceptre  of  antiquity  which  so  lords  it  over  our 
fancies  to  the  Pelasgi,  from  whom  Egypt  straight 
way  wrenches  it,  to  give  it  up  in  turn  to  older  India. 
And  whither  then?  As  well  rest  upon  the  first  step, 
since  the  effect  of  what  is  old  upon  the  mind  is  single 
and  positive,  not  cumulative.  As  soon  as  a  thing  is 
past,  it  is  as  infinitely  far  away  from  us  as  if  it  had 
happened  millions  of  years  ago.  And  if  the  learned 
Huet  be  correct,  who  reckoned  that  all  human  thoughts 
and  records  could  be  included  in  ten  folios,  what  so 
frightfully  old  as  we  ourselves,  who  can,  if  we  choose, 
hold  in  our  memories  every  syllable  of  recorded  time, 


10  FIRESIDE    TRAVELS. 

from  the  first  crunch  of  Eve's  teeth  in  the  apple 
downward,  being  thus  ideally  contemporary  with 
hoariest  Eld? 

14  The  pyramids  built  up  with  newer  might 
To  us  are  nothing  novel,  nothing  strange." 

Now,  my  dear  Storg,  you  know  my  (what  the  phren 
ologists  call)  inhabitiveness  and  adhesiveness,  —  how 
I  stand  by  the  old  thought,  the  old  thing,  the  old 
place,  and  the  old  friend,  till  I  am  very  sure  I  have 
got  a  better,  and  even  then  migrate  painfully.  Re 
member  the  old  Arabian  story,  and  think  how  hard 
it  is  to  pick  up  all  the  pomegranate-seeds  of  an  oppo 
nent's  argument,  and  how,  as  long  as  one  remains, 
you  are  as  far  from  the  end  as  ever.  Since  I  have  you 
entirely  at  my  mercy,  (for  you  cannot  answer  me  under 
five  weeks,)  you  will  not  be  surprised  at  the  advent  of 
this  letter.  I  had  always  one  impregnable  position, 
which  was,  that,  however  good  other  places  might  be, 
there  was  only  one  in  which  we  could  be  born,  and 
which  therefore  possessed  a  quite  peculiar  and  in 
alienable  virtue.  We  had  the  fortune,  which  neither 
of  us  have  had  reason  to  call  other  than  good,  to 
journey  together  through  the  green,  secluded  valley 
of  boyhood;  together  we  climbed  the  mountain  wall 
which  shut  in,  and  looked  down  upon,  those  Italian 
plains  of  early  manhood;  and,  since  then,  we  have 
met  sometimes  by  a  well,  or  broken  bread  together  at 
an  oasis  in  the  arid  desert  of  life,  as  it  truly  is.  With 
this  letter  I  propose  to  make  you  my  fellow-traveller 
in  one  of  those  fireside  voyages  which,  as  we  grow 


CAMBRIDGE    THIRTY   YEARS  AGO.        II 

older,  we  make  oftener  and  oftener  through  our  own 
past.  Without  leaving  your  elbow-chair,  you  shall 
go  back  with  me  thirty  years,  which  will  bring  you 
among  things  and  persons  as  thoroughly  preterite  as 
Romulus  or  Numa.  For  so  rapid  are  our  changes 
in  America,  that  the  transition  from  old  to  new,  the 
shifting  from  habits  and  associations  to  others  entirely 
different,  is  as  rapid  almost  as  the>  passing  in  of  one 
scene  and  the  drawing  out  of  another  on  the  stage. 
And  it  is  this  which  makes  America  so  interesting  to 
the  philosophic  student  of  history  and  man.  Here, 
as  in  a  theatre,  the  great  problems  of  anthropology  — 
which  in  the  Old  World  were  ages  in  solving,  but  which 
are  solved,  leaving  only  a  dry  net  result  —  are  com 
pressed,  as  it  were,  into  the  entertainment  of  a  few 
hours.  Here  we  have  I  know  not  how  many  epochs 
of  history  and  phases  of  civilization  contemporary 
with  each  other,  nay,  within  five  minutes  of  each 
other,  by  the  electric  telegraph.  In  two  centuries  we 
have  seen  rehearsed  the  dispersion  of  man  from  a 
small  point  over  a  whole  continent;  we  witness  with 
our  own  eyes  the  action  of  those  forces  which  govern 
the  great  migration  of  the  peoples  now  historical  in 
Europe;  we  can  watch  the  action  and  reaction  of 
different  races,  forms  of  government,  and  higher  or 
lower  civilizations.  Over  there,  you  have  only  the 
dead  precipitate,  demanding  tedious  analysis;  but 
here  the  elements  are  all  in  solution,  and  we  have  only 
to  look  to  know  them  all.  History,  which  every  day 
makes  less  account  of  governors  and  more  of  man, 
must  find  here  the  compendious  key  to  all  that  picture- 


12  FIRESIDE    TRAVELS. 

writing  of  the  Past.  Therefore  it  is,  my  dear  Storg, 
that  we  Yankees  may  still  esteem  our  America  a  place 
worth  living  in.  But  calm  your  apprehensions;  I 
do  not  propose  to  drag  you  with  me  on  such  an  his 
torical  circumnavigation  of  the  globe,  but  only  to  show 
you  that  (however  needful  it  may  be  to  go  abroad  for 
the  study  of  aesthetics)  a  man  who  uses  the  eyes  of  his 
heart  may  find  here  also  pretty  bits  of  what  may  be 
called  the  social  picturesque,  and  little  landscapes 
over  which  that  Indian-summer  atmosphere  of  the 
Past  broods  as  sweetly  and  tenderly  as  over  a  Roman 
ruin.  Let  us  look  at  the  Cambridge  of  thirty  years 
since. 

The  seat  of  the  oldest  college  in  America,  it  had,  of 
course,  some  of  that  cloistered  quiet  which  charac 
terizes  all  university  towns.  Even  now  delicately- 
thoughtful  A.  H.  C.  tells  me  that  he  finds  in  its  intel 
lectual  atmosphere  a  repose  which  recalls  that  of 
grand  old  Oxford.  But,  underlying  this,  it  had  an 
idiosyncrasy  of  its  own.  Boston  was  not  yet  a  city, 
and  Cambridge  was  still  a  country  village,  with  its  own 
habits  and  traditions,  not  yet  feeling  too  strongly  the 
force  of  suburban  gravitation.  Approaching  it  from 
the  west  by  what  was  then  called  the  New  Road  (it  is 
called  so  no  longer,  for  we  change  our  names  when 
ever  we  can,  to  the  great  detriment  of  all  historical 
association),  you  would  pause  on  the  brow  of  Symonds' 
Hill  to  enjoy  a  view  singularly  soothing  and  placid. 
In  front  of  you  lay  the  town,  tufted  with  elms,  lin 
dens,  and  horse-chestnuts,  which  had  seen  Massa 
chusetts  a  colony,  and  were  fortunately  unable  to 


CAMBRIDGE    THIRTY   YEARS  AGO.        13 

emigrate  with  the  Tories  by  whom,  or  by  whose 
fathers,  they  were  planted.  Over  it  rose  the  noisy 
belfry  of  the  College,  the  square,  brown  tower  of  the 
church,  and  the  slim,  yellow  spire  of  the  parish  meet 
ing-house,  by  no  means  ungraceful,  and  then  an 
invariable  characteristic  of  New  England  religious 
architecture.  On  your  right,  the  Charles  slipped 
smoothly  through  green  and  purple  salt-meadows, 
darkened,  here  and  there,  with  the  blossoming  black - 
grass  as  with  a  stranded  cloud-shadow.  Over  these 
marshes,  level  as  water,  but  without  its  glare,  and  with 
softer  and  more  soothing  gradations  of  perspective, 
the  eye  was  carried  to  a  horizon  of  softly-rounded  hills. 
To  your  left  hand,  upon  the  Old  Road,  you  saw  some 
half-dozen  dignified  old  houses  of  the  colonial  time, 
all  comfortably  fronting  southward.  If  it  were  early 
June,  the  rows  of  horse-chestnuts  along  the  fronts 
of  these  houses  showed,  through  every  crevice  of  their 
dark  heap  of  foliage,  and  on  the  end  of  every  drooping 
limb,  a  cone  of  pearly  flowers,  while  the  hill  behind 
was  white  or  rosy  with  the  crowding  blooms  of  various 
fruit-trees.  There  is  no  sound,  unless  a  horseman 
clatters  over  the  loose  planks  of  the  bridge,  while  his 
antipodal  shadow  glides  silently  over  the  mirrored 
bridge  below,  or  unless, 

"  O  winged  rapture,  feathered  soul  of  spring, 
Blithe  voice  of  woods,  fields,  waters  all  in  one, 
Pipe  blown  through  by  the  warm,  mild  breath  of  June, 
Shepherding  her  white  flocks  of  woolly  clouds, 
The  bobolink  has  come,  and  climbs  the  wind 
With  rippling  wings  that  quiver  not  for  flight, 
But  only  joy,  or,  yielding  to  its  will, 
Runs  down,  a  brook  of  laughter,  through  the  air." 


14  FIRESIDE    TRAVELS. 

Such  was  the  charmingly  rural  picture  which  he 
who,  thirty  years  ago,  went  eastward  over  Symonds' 
Hill  had  given  him  for  nothing,  to  hang  in  the  Gallery 
of  Memory.  But  we  are  a  city  now  and  Common 
Councils  have  yet  no  notion  of  the  truth  (learned  long 
ago  by  many  a  European  hamlet)  that  picturesqueness 
adds  to  the  actual  money  value  of  a  town.  To  save  a 
few  dollars  in  gravel,  they  have  cut  a  kind  of  dry  ditch 
through  the  hill,  where  you  suffocate  with  dust  in  sum 
mer,  or  flounder  through  waist-deep  snow-drifts  in 
winter,  with  no  prospect  but  the  crumbling  earth-walls 
on  either  side.  The  landscape  was  carried  away 
cart-load  by  cart-load,  and,  dumped  down  on  the 
roads,  forms  a  part  of  that  unfathomable  pudding, 
which  has,  I  fear,  driven  many  a  teamster  and  pedes 
trian  to  the  use  of  phrases  not  commonly  found  in 
English  dictionaries. 

We  called  it  "the  Village"  then  (I  speak  of  Old 
Cambridge),  and  it  was  essentially  an  English  village, 
quiet,  unspeculative,  without  enterprise,  sufficing  to 
itself,  and  only  showing  such  differences  from  the 
original  type  as  the  public  school  and  the  system  of 
town  government  might  superinduce.  A  few  houses, 
chiefly  old,  stood  around  the  bare  Common,  with 
ample  elbow-room,  and  old  women,  capped  and  spec 
tacled,  still  peered  through  the  same  windows  from 
which  they  had  watched  Lord  Percy's  artillery  rumble 
by  to  Lexington,  or  caught  a  glimpse  of  the  handsome 
Virginia  General  who  had  come  to  wield  our  home 
spun  Saxon  chivalry.  People  were  still  living  who 
regretted  the  late  unhappy  separation  from  the  mother 


CAMBRIDGE    THIRTY   YEARS  AGO.        15 

island,  who  had  seen  no  gentry  since  the  Vassalls  went, 
and  who  thought  that  Boston  had  ill  kept  the  day  of 
her  patron  saint,  Botolph,  on  the  iyth  of  June,  1775. 
The  hooks  were  to  be  seen  from  which  had  swung  the 
hammocks  of  Burgoyne's  captive  redcoats.  If  mem 
ory  does  not  deceive  me,  women  still  washed  clothes 
in  the  town  spring,  clear  as  that  of  Bandusia^  One 
coach  sufficed  for  all  the  travel  to  the  metropolis. 
Commencement  had  not  ceased  to  be  the  great  holiday 
of  the  Puritan  Commonwealth,  and  a  fitting  one  it 
was,  —  the  festival  of  Santa  Scholastica,  whose  tri 
umphal  path  one  may  conceive  strewn  with  leaves  of 
spelling-book  instead  of  bay.  The  students  (scholars 
they  were  called  then)  wore  their  sober  uniform,  not 
ostentatiously  distinctive  or  capable  of  rousing  demo 
cratic  envy,  and  the  old  lines  of  caste  were  blurred 
rather  than  rubbed  out,  as  servitor  was  softened  into 
beneficiary.  The  Spanish  king  was  sure  that  the 
gesticulating  student  was  either  mad  or  reading  Don 
Quixote,  and  if,  in  those  days,  you  met  a  youth  swing 
ing  his  arms  and  talking  to  himself,  you  might  conclude 
that  he  was  either  a  lunatic  or  one  who  was  to  appear 
in  a  "part"  at  the  next  Commencement.  A  favorite 
place  for  the  rehearsal  of  these  orations  was  the  re 
tired  amphitheatre  of  the  Gravel-pit,  perched  unre 
garded  on  whose  dizzy  edge,  I  have  heard  many  a 
burst  of  plusquam  Ciceronian  eloquence,  and  (often 
repeated)  the  regular  saluto  vos,  pr<zstantissim<z,  etc., 
which  every  year  (with  a  glance  at  the  gallery)  causes 
a  flutter  among  the  fans  innocent  of  Latin,  and  delights 
to  applauses  of  conscious  superiority  the  youth  almost 


1 6  FIRESIDE    TRAVELS. 

% 

as  innocent  as  they.  It  is  curious,  by  the  way,  to  note 
how  plainly  one  can  feel  the  pulse  of  self  in  the  plaudits 
of  an  audience.  At  a  political  meeting,  if  the  enthu 
siasm  of  the  lieges  hang  fire,  it  may  be  exploded  at 
once  by  an  allusion  to  their  intelligence  or  patriotism ; 
and  at  a  literary  festival,  the  first  Latin  quotation 
draws  the  first  applause,  the  clapping  of  hands  being 
intended  as  a  tribute  to  our  own  familiarity  with  that 
sonorous  tongue,  and  not  at  all  as  an  approval  of  the 
particular  sentiment  conveyed  in  it.  For  if  the  orator 
should  say,  "Well  has  Tacitus  remarked,  Americani 
omnes  quddam  m  natures  jure  A  dignissimi,"  it  would 
be  all'the  same.  But  the  Gravel-pit  was  patient,  if 
irresponsive;  nor  did  the  declaimer  always  fail  to 
bring  down  the  house,  bits  of  loosened  earth  falling 
now  and  then  from  the  precipitous  walls,  their  cohe 
sion  perhaps  overcome  by  the  vibrations  of  the  voice, 
and  happily  satirizing  the  effect  of  most  popular  dis 
courses,  which  prevail  rather  with  the  earthy  than  the 
spiritual  part  of  the  hearer.  Was  it  possible  for  us 
in  those  days  to  conceive  of  a  greater  potentate  than 
the  President  of  the  University,  in  his  square  doctor's 
cap,  that  still  filially  recalled  Oxford  and  Cambridge  ? 
If  there  was  a  doubt,  it  was  suggested  only  by  the 
Governor,  and  even  by  him  on  artillery-election  days 
alone,  superbly  martial  with  epaulets  and  buckskin 
breeches,  and  bestriding  the  war-horse,  promoted  to 
that  solemn  duty  for  his  tameness  and  steady  habits. 
Thirty  years  ago,  the  town  had  indeed  a  character. 
Railways  and  omnibuses  had  not  rolled  flat  all  little 
social  prominences  and  peculiarities,  making  every 


CAMBRIDGE    THIRTY   YEARS  AGO.       I/ 

man  as  much  a  citizen  everywhere  as  at  home.  No 
Charlestown  boy  could  come  to  our  annual  festival 
without  fighting  to  avenge  a  certain  traditional  porcine 
imputation  against  the  inhabitants  of  that  historic 
locality,  and  to  which  our  youth  gave  vent  in  fanciful 
imitations  of  the  dialect  of  the  sty,  or  derisive  shouts 
of  "Charlestown  hogs!"  The  penny  newspaper  had 
not  yet  silenced  the  tripod  of  the  barber,  oracle  of 
news.  Everybody  knew  everybody,  and  all  about 
everybody,  and  village  wit,  whose  high  'change  was 
around  the  little  market-house  in  the  town  square, 
had  labelled  every  more  marked  individuality  with 
nicknames  that  clung  like  burs.  Things  were  estab 
lished  then,  and  men  did  not  run  though  all  the  fig 
ures  on  the  dial  of  society  so  swiftly  as  now,  when 
hurry  and  competition  seem  to  have  quite  unhung 
the  modulating  pendulum  of  steady  thrift  and  compe 
tent  training.  Some  slow -minded  persons  even  fol 
lowed  their  father's  trade,  —  a  humiliating  spectacle, 
rarer  every  day.  We  had  our  established  loafers, 
topers,  proverb-mongers,  barber,  parson,  nay,  post 
master,  whose  tenure  was  for  life.  The  great  political 
engine  did  not  then  come  down  at  regular  quadrennial 
intervals,  like  a  nail-cutting  machine,  to  make  all 
official  lives  of  a  standard  length,  and  to  generate  lazy 
and  intriguing  expectancy.  Life  flowed  in  recog 
nized  channels,  narrower  perhaps,  but  with  all  the 
more  individuality  and  force. 

There  was  but  one  white-and-yellow-washer,  whose 
own  cottage,  fresh-gleaming  every  June  through 
grape-vine  and  creeper,  was  his  only  sign  and  adver- 


1 8  FIRESIDE    TRAVELS. 

tiscment.  He  was  said  to  possess  a  secret,  which  died 
with  him  like  that  of  Luca  della  Robbia,  and  certainly 
conceived  all  colors  but  white  and  yellow  to  savor  of 
savagery,  civilizing  the  stems  of  his  trees  annually  with 
liquid  lime,  and  meditating  how  to  extend  that  candent 
baptism  even  to  the  leaves.  His  pie-plants  (the  best 
in  town),  compulsory  monastics,  blanched  under  bar 
rels,  each  in  his  little  hermitage,  a  vegetable  Certosa. 
His  fowls,  his  ducks,  his  geese,  could  not  show  so  much 
as  a  gray  feather  among  them,  and  he  would  have 
given  a  year's  earnings  for  a  white  peacock.  The 
flowers  which  decked  his  little  door-yard  were  whitest 
China-asters  and  goldenest  sunflowers,  which  last, 
backsliding  from  their  traditional  Parsee  faith,  used 
to  puzzle  us  urchins  not  a  little  by  staring  brazenly 
every  way  except  towards  the  sun.  Celery,  too,  he 
raised,  whose  virtue  is  its  paleness,  and  the  silvery 
onion,  and  turnip,  which,  though  outwardly  conform 
ing  to  the  green  heresies  of  summer,  nourish  a  purer 
faith  subterraneously,  like  early  Christians  in  the 
catacombs.  In  an  obscure  corner  grew  the  sanguine 
beet,  tolerated  only  for  its  usefulness  in  allaying  the 
asperities  of  Saturday's  salt-fish.  He  loved  winter 
better  than  summer,  because  Nature  then  played  the 
whitewasher,  and  challenged  with  her  snows  the 
scarce  inferior  purity  of  his  overalls  and  neck-cloth. 
I  fancy  that  he  never  rightly  liked  Commencement, 
for  bringing  so  many  black  coats  together.  He 
founded  no  school.  Others  might  essay  his  art  and 
were  allowed  to  try  their  prentice  hands  on  fences  and 
the  like  coarse  subjects,  but  the  ceiling  of  every  house- 


CAMBRIDGE    THIRTY  YEARS  AGO.        1 9 

wife  waited  on  the  leisure  of  Newman  (ichneumon 
the  students  called  him  for  his  diminutiveness),  nor 
would  consent  to  other  brush  than  his.  There  was 
also  but  one  brewer,  —  Lewis,  who  made  the  village 
beer,  both  spruce  and  ginger,  a  grave  and  amiable 
Ethiopian,  making  a  discount  always  to  the  boys,  and 
wisely,  for  they  were  his  chiefest  patrons.  He  wheeled 
his  whole  stock  in  a  white-roofed  handcart,  on  whose 
front  a  sign-board  presented  at  either  end  an  insur 
rectionary  bottle;  yet  insurgent  after  no  mad  Gallic 
fashion,  but  soberly  and  Saxonly  discharging  itself 
into  the  restraining  formulary  of  a  tumbler,  symbolic 
of  orderly  prescription.  The  artist  had  struggled 
manfully  with  the  difficulties  of  his  subject,  but  had 
not  succeeded  so  well  that  we  did  not  often  debate  in 
which  of  the  twin  bottles  Spruce  was  typified,  and  in 
which  Ginger.  We  always  believed  that  Lewis  men 
tally  distinguished  between  them,  but  by  some  pecul 
iarity  occult  to  exoteric  eyes.  This  ambulatory  chapel 
of  the  Bacchus  that  gives  the  colic,  but  not  inebriates, 
only  appeared  at  the  Commencement  holidays,  and  the 
lad  who  bought  of  Lewis  laid  out  his  money  well, 
getting  respect  as  well  as  beer,  three  sirs  to  every  glass, 
—  "Beer,  sir?  yes,  sir:  spruce  or  ginger,  sir?"  I 
can  yet  recall  the  innocent  pride  with  which  I  walked 
away  after  that  somewhat  risky  ceremony,  (for  a 
bottle  sometimes  blew  up,)  dilated  not  alone  with  car 
bonic-acid  gas,  but  with  the  more  ethereal  fixed  air 
of  that  titular  flattery.  Nor  was  Lewis  proud.  When 
he  tried  his  fortunes  in  the  capital  on  Election-days, 
and  stood  amid  a  row  of  rival  venders  in  the  very 


20  FIRESIDE    TRAVELS. 

flood  of  custom,  he  never  forgot  his  small  fellow- 
citizens,  but  welcomed  them  with  an  assuring  smile, 
and  served  them  with  the  first. 

The  barber's  shop  was  a  museum,  scarce  second  to 
the  larger  one  of  Greenwood  in  the  metropolis.  The 
boy  who  was  to  be  clipped  there  was  always  accom 
panied  to  the  sacrifice  by  troops  of  friends,  who  thus 
inspected  the  curiosities  gratis.  While  the  watchful 
eye  of  R.  wandered  to  keep  in  check  these  rather  un 
scrupulous  explorers  the  unpausing  shears  would 
sometimes  overstep  the  boundaries  of  strict  tonsorial 
prescription,  and  make  a  notch  through  which  the 
phrenological  developments  could  be  distinctly  seen. 
As  Michael  Angelo's  design  was  modified  by  the 
shape  of  his  block,  so  R.,  rigid  in  artistic  proprieties, 
would  contrive  to  give  an  appearance  of  design  to  this 
aberration,  by  making  it  the  key-note  to  his  work,  and 
reducing  the  whole  head  to  an  appearance  of  prema 
ture  baldness.  What  a  charming  place  it  was,  — 
how  full  of  wonder  and  delight!  The  sunny  little 
room,  fronting  southwest  upon  the  Common,  rang 
with  canaries  and  Java  sparrows,  nor  were  the  familiar 
notes  of  robin,  thrush,  and  bobolink  wanting.  A 
large  white  cockatoo  harangued  vaguely,  at  intervals, 
in  what  we  believed  (on  R.'s  authority)  to  be  the 
Hottentot  language.  He  had  an  unveracious  air,  but 
what  inventions  of  former  grandeur  he  was  indulging 
in,  what  sweet  South-African  Argos  he  was  remem 
bering,  what  tropical  heats  and  giant  trees  by  uncon- 
jectured  rivers,  known  only  to  the  wallowing  hippo 
potamus,  we  could  only  guess  at.  The  walls  were 


CAMBRIDGE    THIRTY   YEARS  AGO.       21 

covered  with  curious  old  Dutch  prints,  beaks  of  alba 
tross  and  penguin,  and  whales'  teeth  fantastically 
engraved.  There  was  Frederick  the  Great,  with  head 
drooped  plottingly,  and  keen  side-long  glance  from 
under  the  three-cornered  hat.  There  hung  Bona 
parte,  too,  the  long-haired,  haggard  general  of  Italy, 
his  eyes  sombre  with  prefigured  destiny;  and  there 
was  his  island  grave ;  —  the  dream  and  the  fulfilment. 
Good  store  of  sea-fights  there  was  also;  above  all, 
Paul  Jones  in  the  Bonhomme  Richard:  the  smoke 
rolling  courteously  to  leeward,  that  we  might  see  him 
dealing  thunderous  wreck  to  the  two  hostile  vessels, 
each  twice  as  large  as  his  own,  and  the  reality  of  the 
scene  corroborated  by  streaks  of  red  paint  leaping  from 
the  mouth  of  every  gun.  Suspended  over  the  fire 
place,  with  the  curling-tongs,  were  an  Indian  bow  and 
arrows,  and  in  the  corners  of .  the  room  stood  New 
Zealand  paddles  and  war-clubs,  quaintly  carved.  The 
model  of  a  ship  in  glass  we  variously  estimated  to  be 
worth  from  a  hundred  to  a  thousand  dollars,  R. 
rather  favoring  the  higher  valuation,  though  never 
distinctly  committing  himself.  Among  these  wonders, 
the  only  suspicious  one  was  an  Indian  tomahawk, 
which  had  too  much  the  peaceful  look  of  a  shingling- 
hatchet.  Did  any  rarity  enter  the  town,  it  gravitated 
naturally  to  these  walls,  to  the  very  nail  that  waited  to 
receive  it,  and  where,  the  day  after  its  accession,  it 
seemed  to  have  hung  a  lifetime.  We  always  had 
a  theory  that  R.  was  immensely  rich,  (how  could  he 
possess  so  much  and  be  otherwise?)  and  that  he  pur 
sued  his  calling  from  an  amiable  eccentricity.  He 


22  FIRESIDE    TRAVELS. 

was  a  conscientious  artist,  and  never  submitted  it  to 
the  choice  of  his  victim  whether  he  would  be  perfumed 
or  not.  Faithfully  was  the  bottle  shaken  and  the 
odoriferous  mixture  rubbed  in,  a  fact  redolent  to  the 
whole  school-room  in  the  afternoon.  Sometimes  the 
persuasive  tonsor  would  impress  one  of  the  attendant 
volunteers,  and  reduce  his  poll  to  shoe-brush  crisp- 
ness,  at  cost  of  the  reluctant  ninepence  hoarded  for 
Fresh  Pond  and  the  next  half-holiday.  So  purely 
indigenous  was  our  population  then,  that  R.  had  a 
certain  exotic  charm,  a  kind  of  game  flavor,  by  being 
a  Dutchman. 

Shall  the  two  groceries  want  their  vales  sacer,  where 
E.  &  W.  I.  goods  and  country  prodooce  were  sold 
with  an  energy  mitigated  by  the  quiet  genius  of  the 
place,  and  where  strings  of  urchins  waited,  each  with 
cent  in  hand,  for  the  unweighed  dates  (thus  giving  an 
ordinary  business  transaction  all  the  excitement  of  a 
lottery),  and  buying,  not  only  that  cloying  sweetness, 
but  a  dream  also  of  Egypt,  and  palm-trees,  and  Arabs, 
in  which  vision  a  print  of  the  Pyramids  in  our  geog 
raphy  tyrannized  like  that  taller  thought  of  Cowper's? 

At  one  of  these  the  unwearied  students  used  to  ply 
a  joke  handed  down  from  class  to  class.  Enter  A, 
and  asks  gravely,  "Have  you  any  sour  apples, 
Deacon?" 

"Well,  no,  I  have  n't  any  just  now  that  are  exactly 
sour;  but  there  's  the  bell-flower  apple,  and  folks  that 
like  a  sour  apple  generally  like  that."  (Exit  A.) 

Enter  B.     "Have  you  any  sweet  apples,  Deacon?" 

"Well,  no,  I  have  n't  any  just  now  that  are  exactly 


CAMBRIDGE    THIRTY   YEARS  AGO.       23 

sweet;  but  there's  the  bell-flower  apple,  and  folks 
that  like  a  sweet  apple  generally  like  that."  (Exit  B.) 
There  is  not  even  a  tradition  of  any  one's  ever 
having  turned  the  wary  Deacon's  flank  and  his 
Laodicean  apples  persisted  to  the  end,  neither  one 
thing  nor  another.  Or  shall  the  two  town -constables 
be  forgotten,  in  whom  the  law  stood  worthily  and 
amply  embodied,  fit  either  of  them  to  fill  the  uniform 
of  an  English  beadle?  Grim  and  silent  as  Ninevite 
statues  they  stood  on  each  side  of  the  meeting-house 
door  at  Commencement,  propped  by  long  staves  of 
blue  and  red,  on  which  the  Indian  with  bow  and  arrow 
and  the  mailed  arm  with  the  sword,  hinted  at  the 
invisible  sovereignty  of  the  state  ready  to  reinforce 

them,  as 

"  For  Achilles'  portrait  stood  a  spear 
Grasped  in  an  armed  hand." 

Stalwart  and  rubicund  men  they  were,  second  only, 
if  second,  to  S.,  champion  of  the  county,  and  not  in 
capable  of  genial  unbendings  when  the  fasces  were 
laid  aside.  One  of  them  still  survives  in  octogenarian 
vigor,  the  Herodotus  of  village  and  college  legend,  and 
may  it  be  long  ere  he  depart,  to  carry  with  him  the 
pattern  of  a  courtesy,  now,  alas !  old-fashioned,  but 
which  might  profitably  make  part  of  the  instruction 
of  our  youth  among  the  other  humanities !  Long 
may  R.  M.  be  spared  to  us,  so  genial,  so  courtly,  the 
last  man  among  us  who  will  ever  know  how  to  lift  a  hat 
with  the  nice  graduation  of  social  distinction  !  Some 
thing  of  a  Jeremiah  now,  he  bewails  the  decline  of  our 
manners.  "My  children,"  he  says,  "say,  'Yes  sir/ 


24  FIRESIDE    TRAVELS. 

and  'No  sir';  my  grandchildren,  'Yes'  and  'No'; 
and  I  am  every  day  expecting  to  hear  'D — n  your 
eyes ! '  for  an  answer  when  I  ask  a  service  of  my 
great-grandchildren.  Why,  sir,  I  can  remember 
when  more  respect  was  paid  to  Governor  Hancock's 
lackey  at  Commencement,  than  the  Governor  and  all 
his  suite  get  now."  M.  is  one  of  those  invaluable 
men  who  remember  your  grandfather,  and  value  you 
accordingly. 

In  those  days  the  population  was  almost  wholly 
without  foreign  admixture.  Two  Scotch  gardeners 
there  were,  —  Rule,  whose  daughter  (glimpsed  per 
haps  at  church,  or  possibly  the  mere  Miss  Harris  of 
fancy)  the  students  nicknamed  Anarchy  or  Miss  Rule, 
—  and  later  Fraser,  whom  whiskey  sublimed  into  a 
poet,  full  of  bloody  histories  of  the  Forty-twa,  and 
showing  an  imaginary  French  bullet,  sometimes  in 
one  leg,  sometimes  in  the  other,  and  sometimes, 
toward  nightfall,  in  both.  With  this  claim  to  military 
distinction  he  adroitly  contrived  to  mingle  another  to  a 
natural  one,  asserting  double  teeth  all  round  his  jaws, 
and,  having  thus  created  two  sets  of  doubts,  silenced 
both  at  once  by  a  single  demonstration,  displaying 
the  grinders  to  the  confusion  of  the  infidel. 

The  old  court-house  stood  then  upon  the  square. 
It  has  shrunk  back  out  of  sight  now,  and  students  box 
and  fence  where  Parsons  once  laid  down  the  law, 
and  Ames  and  Dexter  showed  their  skill  in  the  fence 
of  argument,  'times  have  changed,  and  manners, 
since  Chief  Justice  Dana  (father  of  Richard  the  First, 
and  grandfather  of  Richard  the  Second)  caused  to  be 


CAMBRIDGE    THIRTY    YEARS  AGO.        2$ 

arrested  for  contempt  of  court  a  butcher  who  had 
come  in  without  a  coat  to  witness  the  administration 
of  his  country's  laws,  and  who  thus  had  his  curiosity 
exemplarily  gratified.  Times  have  changed  also 
since  the  cellar  beneath  it  was  tenanted  by  the  twin- 
brothers  Snow.  Oyster  men  were  they  indeed, 
silent  in  their  subterranean  burrow,  and  taking  the 
ebbs  and  flows  of  custom  with  bivalvian  serenity. 
Careless  of  the  months  with  an  R  in  them,  the  maxim 
of  Snow  (for  we  knew  them  but  as  a  unit)  was,  "When, 
'ysters  are  good,  they  air  good ;  and  when  they  ain't, 
they  is  n't."  Grecian  F.  (may  his  shadow  never  be 
less !)  tells  this,  his  great  laugh  expected  all  the  while 
from  deep  vaults  of  chest,  and  then  coming  in  at  the 
close,  hearty,  contagious,  mounting  with  the  meas 
ured  tread  of  a  jovial  but  stately  butler  who  brings 
ancientest  good-fellowship  from  exhaustless  bins, 
and  enough,  without  other  sauce,  to  give  a  flavor  of 
stalled  ox  to  a  dinner  of  herbs.  Let  me  preserve  here 
an  anticipatory  elegy  upon  the  Snows,  written  years 
ago  by  some  nameless  college  rhymer. 

DIFFUGERE   NIVES. 

Here  lies,  or  lie,  —  decide  the  question,  you, 

If  they  were  two  in  one  or  one  in  two,  — 

P.  &  S.  Snow,  whose  memory  shall  not  fade, 

Castor  and  Pollux  of  the  oyster-trade  : 

Hatched  from  one  egg,  at  once  the  shell  they  burst, 

(The  last,  perhaps,  a  P.  S.  to  the  first,) 

So  homoousian  both  in  look  and  soul, 

So  undiscernibly  a  single  whole, 

That  whether  P.'  was  S.,  or  S.  was  P., 

Surpassed  all  skill  in  etymology; 

One  kept  the  shop  at  once,  and  all  we  know 


26  FIRESIDE    TRAVELS. 

.Is  that  together  they  were  the  Great  Snow, 

A  snow  not  deep,  yet  with  a  crust  so  thick 

It  never  melted  to  the  son  of  Tick ; 

Perpetual  ?  nay,  our  region  was  too  low, 

Too  warm,  too  southern,  for  perpetual  Snow; 

Still,  like  fair  Leda's  sons,  to  whom  't  was  given 

To  take  their  turns  in  Hades  and  in  Heaven, 

Our  new  Dioscuri  would  bravely  share 

The  cellar's  darkness  and  the  upper  air; 

Twice  every  year  would  each  the  shades  escape, 

And,  like  a  sea-bird,  seek  the  wave-washed  Cape, 

Where  (Rumor  voiced)  one  spouse  sufficed  for  both; 

No  bigamist,  for  she  upon  her  oath, 

Unskilled  in  letters,  could  not  make  a  guess 

At  any  difference  twixt  P.  and  S.  — 

A  thing  not  marvellous,  since  Fame  agrees 

They  were  as  little  different  as  two  peas, 

And  she,  like  Paris,  when  his  Helen  laid 

Her  hand  'mid  snows  from  Ida's  top  conveyed 

To  cool  their  wine  of  Chios,  could  not  know, 

Between  those  rival  candors,  which  was  Snow. 

Whiche'er  behind  the  counter  chanced  to  be 

Oped  oysters  oft,  his  clam-shells  seldom  he ; 

If  e'er  he  laughed,  't  was  with  no  loud  guffaw, 

The  fun  warmed  through  him  with  a  gradual  thaw; 

The  nicer  shades  of  wit  were  not  his  gift, 

Nor  was  it  hard  to  sound  Snow's  simple  drift; 

His  were  plain  jokes,  that  many  a  time  before 

Had  set  his  tarry  messmates  in  a  roar, 

When  floundering  cod  beslimed  the  deck's  wet  planks,- 

The  humorous  specie  of  Newfoundland  banks. 

But  Snow  is  gone,  and,  let  us  hope,  sleeps  well, 
Buried  (his  last  breath  asked  it)  in  a  shell ; 
Fate  with  an  oyster-knife  sawed  off  his  thread, 
And  planted  him  upon  his  latest  bed. 

Him  on  the  Stygian  shore  my  fancy  sees 
Noting  choice  shoals  for  oyster  colonies, 
Or,  at  a  board  stuck  full  of  ghostly  forks, 
Opening  for  practice  visionary  Yorks. 
And  whither  he  has  gone,  may  we  too  go, — 
Since  no  hot  place  were  fit  for  keeping  Snow ! 

Jam  satis  nivis. 


CAMBRIDGE    THIRTY   YEARS  AGO.       2/ 

Cambridge  has  long  had  its  port,  but  the  greater  part 
of  its  maritime  trade  was,  thirty  years  ago,  intrusted 
to  a  single  Argo,  the  sloop  Harvard,  which  belonged 
to  the  College,  and  made  annual  voyages  to  that  vague 
Orient  known  as  Down  East,  bringing  back  wood 
that,  in  those  days,  gave  to  winter  life  at  Harvard  a 
crackle  and  a  cheerfulness,  for  the  loss  of  which  the 
greater  warmth  of  anthracite  hardly  compensates. 
New  England  life,  to  be  genuine,  must  have  in  it  some 
sentiment  of  the  sea,  —  it  was  this  instinct  that  printed 
the  device  of  the  pine-tree  on  the  old  money  and  the 
old  flag,  —  and  these  periodic  ventures  of  the  sloop 
Harvard  made  the  old  Viking  fibre  vibrate  in  the 
hearts  of  all  the  village  boys.  What  a  vista  of  mystery 
and  adventure  did  her  sailing  open  to  us  !  With  what 
pride  did  we  hail  her  return !  She  was  our  scholiast 
upon  Robinson  Crusoe  and  the  mutiny  of  the  Bounty. 
Her  captain  still  lords  it  over  our  memories,  the  greatest 
sailor  that  ever  sailed  the  seas,  and  we  should  not 
look  at  Sir  John  Franklin  himself  with  such  admiring 
interest  as  that  with  which  we  enhaloed  some  larger 
boy  who  had  made  a  voyage  in  her,  and  had  come 
back  without  braces  (gallowses  we  called  them)  to  his 
trousers,  and  squirting  ostentatiously  the  juice  of  that 
weed  which  still  gave  him  little  private  returns  of 
something  very  like  sea-sickness.  All  our  shingle 
vessels  were  shaped  and  rigged  by  her,  who  was  our 
glass  of  naval  fashion  and  our  mould  of  aquatic  form. 
We  had  a  secret  and  wild  delight  in  believing  that 
she  carried  a  gun,  and  imagined  her  sending  grape  and 
canister  among  the  treacherous  savages  of  Oldtown. 


28  FIRESIDE    TRAVELS. 

Inspired  by  her  were  those  first  essays  at  navigation 
on  the  Winthrop  duck-pond,  of  the  plucky  boy  who 
was  afterwards  to  serve  two  famous  years  before  the 
mast.  The  greater  part  of  what  is  now  Cambridge  - 
port  was  then  (in  the  native  dialect)  a  huckleberry 
pastur.  Woods  were  not  wanting  on  its  outskirts,  of 
pine,  and  oak,  and  maple,  and  the  rarer  tupelo  with 
downward  limbs.  Its  veins  did  not  draw  their  blood 
from  the  quiet  old  heart  of  the  village,  but  it  had  a 
distinct  being  of  its  own,  and  was  rather  a  great  cara 
vansary  than  a  suburb.  The  chief  feature  of  the 
place  was  its  inns,  of  which  there  were  five,  with  vast 
barns  and  court -yards,  which  the  railroad  was  to  make 
as  silent  and  deserted  as  the  palaces  of  Nimroud. 
Great  white-topped  wagons,  each  drawn  by  double 
files  of  six  or  eight  horses,  with  its  dusty  bucket  swing 
ing  from  the  hinder  axle,  and  its  grim  bull-dog  trotting 
silent  underneath,  or  in  midsummer  panting  on  the 
lofty  perch  beside  the  driver,  (how  elevated  thither 
baffled  conjecture,)  brought  all  the  wares  and  products 
of  the  country  to  their  mart  and  seaport  in  Boston. 
These  filled  the  inn-yards,  or  were  ranged  side  by 
side  under  broad-roofed  sheds,  and  far  into  the  night 
the  mirth  of  their  lusty  drivers  clamored  from  the  red- 
curtained  bar-room,  while  the  single  lantern,  swaying 
to  and  fro  in  the  black  cavern  of  the  stables,  made  a 
Rembrandt  of  the  group  of  ostlers  and  horses  below. 
There  were,  besides  the  taverns,  some  huge  square 
stores  where  groceries  were  sold,  some  houses,  by 
whom  or  why  inhabited  was  to  us  boys  a  problem, 
and,  on  the  edge  of  the  marsh,  a  currier's  shop,  where 


CAMBRIDGE    THIRTY    YEARS  AGO.        29 

at  high  tide,  on  a  floating  platform,  men  were  always 
beating  skins  in  a  way  to  remind  one  of  Don  Quixote's 
fulling  mills.  Nor  did  these  make  all  the  Port.  As 
there  is  always  a  Coming  Man  who  never  comes,  so 
there  is  a  man  who  always  comes  (it  may  be  only  a 
quarter  of  an  hour)  too  early.  This  man,  so  far  as  the 
Port  is  concerned,  was  Rufus  Davenport.  Looking 
at  the  marshy  flats  of  Cambridge,  and  considering 
their  nearness  to  Boston,  he  resolved  that  there  should 
grow  up  a  suburban  Venice.  Accordingly,  the 
marshes  were  bought,  canals  were  dug,  ample  for  the 
commerce  of  both  Indies,  and  four  or  five  rows  of 
brick  houses  were  built  to  meet  the  first  wants  of  the 
wading  settlers  who  were  expected  to  rush  in  — 
WHENCE  ?  This  singular  question  had  never  occurred 
to  the  enthusiastic  projector.  There  are  laws  which 
govern  human  migrations  quite  beyond  the  control 
of  the  speculator,  as  many  a  man  with  desirable 
building-lots  has  discovered  to  his  cost.  Why  mortal 
men  will  pay  more  for  a  chess-board  square  in  that 
swamp,  than  for  an  acre  on  the  breezy  upland  close 
by,  who  shall  say?  And  again,  why,  having  shown 
such  a  passion  for  your  swamp,  they  are  so  coy  of 
mine,  who  shall  say?  Not  certainly  any  one  who, 
like  Davenport,  had  got  up  too  early  for  his  genera 
tion.  If  we  could  only  carry  that  slow,  imperturbable 
old  clock  of  Opportunity,  that  never  strikes  a  second 
too  soon  or  too  late,  in  our  fobs,  and  push  the  hands 
forward  as  we  can  those  of  our  watches!  With  a 
foreseeing  economy  of  space  which  now  seems  ludi 
crous,  the  roofs  of  this  forlorn -hope  of  houses  were 


30  FIRESIDE    TRAVELS. 

made  flat,  that  the  swarming  population  might  have 
where  to  dry  their  clothes.  But  A.u.c.  36  showed 
the  same  view  as  A.u.c.  i,  —  only  that  the  brick 
blocks  looked  as  if  they  had  been  struck  by  a  malaria. 
The  dull  weed  upholstered  the  decaying  wharves,  and 
the  only  freight  that  heaped  them  was  the  kelp  and 
eel -grass  left  by  higher  floods.  Instead  of  a  Venice, 
behold  a  Torzelo !  The  unfortunate  projector  took 
to  the  last  refuge  of  the  unhappy  —  book-making, 
and  bored  the  reluctant  public  with  what  he  called  a 
right-aim  Testament,  prefaced  by  a  recommendation 
from  General  Jackson,  who  perhaps,  from  its  title, 
took  it  for  some  treatise  on  ball -practice. 

But  even  Cambridgeport,  my  dear  Storg,  did  not 
want  associations  poetic  and  venerable.  The  stranger 
who  took  the  "Hourly"  at  Old  Cambridge,  if  he  were 
a  physiognomist  and  student  of  character,  might  per 
haps  have  had  his  curiosity  excited  by  a  person  who 
mounted  the  coach  at  the  Port.  So  refined  was  his 
whole  appearance,  so  fastidiously  neat  his  apparel, — 
but  with  a  neatness  that  seemed  less  the  result  of  care 
and  plan,  than  a  something  as  proper  to  the  man  as 
whiteness  to  the  lily, — that  you  would  have  at  once 
classed  him  with  those  individuals,  rarer  than  great 
captains  and  almost  as  rare  as  great  poets,  whom 
Nature  sends  into  the  world  to  fill  the  arduous  office 
/  of  Gentleman.  Were  you  ever  emperor  of  that 
Barataria  which  under  your  peaceful  sceptre  would 
present,  of  course,  a  model  of  government,  this  re 
markable  person  should  be  Duke  of  Bienseance  and 
Master  of  Ceremonies.  There  are  some  men  whom 


CAMBRIDGE    THIRTY    YEARS   AGO.       31 

destiny  has  endowed  with  the  faculty  of  external  neat 
ness,  whose  clothes  are  repellent  of  dust  and  mud, 
whose  unwithering  white  neck-cloths  persevere  to  the 
day's  end,  unappeasably  seeing  the  sun  go  down  upon 
their  starch,  and  whose  linen  makes  you  fancy  them 
heirs  in  the  maternal  line  to  the  instincts  of  all  the 
washerwomen  from  Eve  downward.  There  are 
others  whose  inward  natures  possess  this  fatal  clean 
ness,  incapable  of  moral  dirt  spot.  You  are  not  long 
in  discovering  that  the  stranger  combines  in  himself 
both  these  properties.  A  nimbus  of  hair,  fine  as  an 
infant's,  and  early  white,  showing  refinement  of  organ 
ization  and  the  predominance  of  the  spiritual  over  the 
physical,  undulated  and  floated  around  a  face  that 
seemed  like  pale  flame,  and  over  which  the  flitting 
shades  of  expression  chased  each  other,  fugitive  and 
gleaming  as  waves  upon  a  field  of  rye.  It  was  a 
countenance  that,  without  any  beauty  of  feature,  was 
very  beautiful.  I  have  said  that  it  looked  like  pale 
flame,  and  can  find  no  other  words  for  the  impression 
it  gave.  Here  was  a  man  all  soul,  whose  body  seemed 
a  lamp  of  finest  clay,  whose  service  was  to  feed  with 
magic  oils,  rare  and  fragrant,  that  wavering  fire  which 
hovered  over  it.  You,  who  are  an  adept  in  such  mat 
ters,  would  have  detected  in  the  eyes  that  artist-look 
which  seems  to  see  pictures  ever  in  the  air,  and 
which,  if  it  fall  on  you,  makes  you  feel  as  if  all 
the  world  were  a  gallery,  and  yourself  the  rather 
indifferent  Portrait  of  a  Gentleman  hung  therein. 
As  the  stranger  brushes  by  you  in  alighting,  you 
detect  a  single  incongruity,  —  a  smell  of  dead  tobacco- 


32  FIRESIDE    TRAVELS. 

smoke.      You    ask   his   name,   and    the   answer   is, 
"Mr.  Allston." 

"Mr.  Allston!"  and  you  resolve  to  note  down  at 
once  in  your  diary  every  look,  every  gesture,  every 
word  of  the  great  painter?  Not  in  the  least.  You 
have  the  true  Anglo-Norman  indifference,  and  most 
likely  never  think  of  him  again  till  you  hear  that  one 
of  his  pictures  has  sold  for  a  great  price,  and  then 
contrive  to  let  your  grandchildren  know  twice  a  week 
that  you  met  him  once  in  a  coach,  and  that  he  .said, 
"Excuse  me,  sir,"  in  a  very  Titianesque  manner,  when 
he  stumbled  over  your  toes  in  getting  out.  Hitherto 
Boswell  is  quite  as  unique  as  Shakespeare,  'jfhe 
country-gentleman,  journeying  up  to  London,  in 
quires  of  Mistress  Davenant  at  the  Oxford  inn  the 
name  of  his  pleasant  companion  of  the  night  before. 
"Master  Shakespeare,  an  't  please  your  worship." 
And  the  Justice,  not  without  a  sense  of  the  unbending, 
says,  "Truly,  a  merry  and  conceited  gentleman  !"  It 
is  lucky  for  the  peace  of  great  men  that  the  world 
seldom  finds  out  contemporaneously  who  its  great 
men  are,  or,  perhaps,  that  each  man  esteems  himself 
the  fortunate  he  who  shall  draw  the  lot  of  memory 
from  the  helmet  of  the  future.  Had  the  eyes  of  some 
Stratford  burgess  been  achromatic  telescopes,  capable 
of  a  perspective  of  two  hundred  years!  But,  even 
then,  would  not  his  record  have  been  fuller  of  says  Fs 
than  says  he's?  Nevertheless,  it  is  curious  to  con 
sider  from  what  infinitely  varied  points  of  view  we 
might  form  our  estimate  of  a  great  man's  character, 
when  we  remember  that  he  had  his  points  of  contact 


CAMBRIDGE    THIRTY    YEARS  AGO.        33 

with  the  butcher,  the  baker,  and  the  candlestick- 
maker,  as  well  as  with  the  ingenious  A,  the  sublime 
B,  and  the  Right  Honorable  C.  If  it  be  true  that  no 
man  ever  clean  forgets  everything,  and  that  the  act 
of  drowning  (as  is  asserted)  forthwith  brightens  up  all 
those  o'er-rusted  impressions,  would  it  not  be  a  curious 
experiment,  if,  after  a  remarkable  person's  death,  the 
public,  eager  for  minutest  particulars,  should  gather 
together  all  who  had  ever  been  brought  into  relations 
with  him,  and,  submerging  them  to  the  hair's-breadth 
hitherward  of  the  drowning-point,  subject  them  to 
strict  cross-examination  by  the  Humane  Society,  as 
soon  as  they  become  conscious  between  the  resusci 
tating  blankets?  All  of  us  probably  have  brushed 
against  destiny  in  the  street,  have  shaken  hands  with 
it,  fallen  asleep  with  it  in  railway  carriages,  and  knocked 
heads  with  it  in  some  one  or  other  of  its  yet  unrecog 
nized  incarnations. 

Will  it  seem  like  presenting  a  tract  to  a  colporteur, 
my  dear  Storg,  if  I  say  a  word  or  two  about  an  artist 
to  you  over  there  in  Italy?  Be  patient,  and  leave 
your  button  in  my  grasp  yet  a  little  longer.  A  person 
whose  opinion  is  worth  having  once  said  to  me,  that, 
however  one's  notions  might  be  modified  by  going  to 
Europe,  one  always  came  back  with  a  higher  esteem 
for  Allston.  Certainly  he  is  thus  far  the  greatest 
English  painter  of  historical  subjects.  And  only  con 
sider  how  strong  must  have  been  the  artistic  bias  in 
him,  to  have  made  him  a  painter  at  all  under  the  cir 
cumstances.  There  were  no  traditions  of  art,  so 
necessary  for  guidance  and  inspiration.  Blackburn, 


34  FIRESIDE    TRAVELS. 

Smibert,  Copley,  Trumbull,  Stuart,  —  it  was,  after 
all,  but  a  Brentford  sceptre  which  their  heirs  could 
aspire  to,  and  theirs  were  not  names  to  conjure  with, 
like  those  from  which  Fame,  as  through  a  silver  trum 
pet,  had  blown  for  three  centuries.  Copley  and 
Stuart  were  both  remarkable  men;  but  the  one 
painted  like  an  inspired  silk  mercer,  and  the  other 
seems  to  have  mixed  his  colors  with  the  claret  of  which 
he  and  his  generation  were  so  fond.  And  what  could  a 
successful  artist  hope  for,  at  that  time,  beyond  the 
mere  wages  of  his  work  ?  His  picture  would  hang  in 
cramped  back  parlors,  between  deadly  cross-fires  of 
lights,  sure  of  the  garret  or  the  auction -room  erelong, 
in  a  country  where  the  nomad  population  carry  no 
household  gods  with  them  but  their  five  wits  and 
their  ten  fingers.  As  a  race,  we  care  nothing  about 
Art;  but  the  Puritan  and  the  Quaker  are  the  only 
Englishmen  who  have  had  pluck  enough  to  confess  it. 
If  it  were  surprising  that  Allston  should  have  become 
a  painter  at  all,  how  almost  miraculous  that  he  should 
have  been  a  great  and  original  one !  We  call  him 
original  deliberately,  because,  though  his  school  is 
essentially  Italian,  it  is  of  less  consequence  where  a 
man  buys  his  tools  than  what  use  he  makes  of  them. 
Enough  English  artists  went  to  Italy  and  came  back 
painting  history  in  a  very  Anglo-Saxon  manner,  and 
creating  a  school  as  melodramatic  as  the  French, 
without  its  perfection  in  technicalities.  But  Allston 
carried  thither  a  nature  open  on  the  southern  side, 
and  brought  it  back  so  steeped  in  rich  Italian  sun 
shine  that  the  east  winds  (whether  physical  or  intel- 


CAMBRIDGE    THIRTY  YEARS  AGO.        35 

lectual)  of  Boston  and  the  dusts  of  Cambridgeport 
assailed  it  in  vain.  To  that  bare  wooden  studio  one 
might  go  to  breathe  Venetian  air,  and,  better  yet, 
the  very  spirit  wherein  the  elder  brothers  of  Art 
labored,  etherealized  by  metaphysical  speculation, 
and  sublimed  by  religious  fervor.  The  beautiful  old 
man !  Here  was  genius  with  no  volcanic  explosions 
(the  mechanic  result  of  vulgar  gunpowder  often), 
but  lovely  as  a  Lapland  night;  here  was  fame,  not 
sought  after  nor  worn  in  any  cheap  French  fashion  as 
a  ribbon  at  the  button-hole,  but  so  gentle,  so  retiring, 
that  it  seemed  no  more  than  an  assured  and  em 
boldened  modesty;  here  was  ambition,  undebased  by 
rivalry  and  incapable  of  the  sidelong  look;  and  all 
these  massed  and  harmonized  together  into  a  purity 
and  depth  of  character,  into  a  tone,  which  made  the 
daily  life  of  the  man  the  greatest  masterpiece  of  the 
artist. 

But  let  us  go  back  to  the  Old  Town.  Thirty  years 
since,  the  Muster  and  the  Cornwallis  allowed  some 
vent  to  those  natural  instincts  which  Puritanism 
scotched,  but  not  killed.  The  Cornwallis  had  entered 
upon  the  estates  of  the  old  Guy-Fawkes  procession, 
confiscated  by  the  Revolution.  It  was  a  masquerade, 
in  which  that  grave  and  suppressed  humor,  of  which 
the  Yankees  are  fuller  than  other  people,  burst  through 
all  restraints,  and  disported  itself  in  all  the  wildest 
vagaries  of  fun.  Commonly  the  Yankee  in  his  pleas 
ures  suspects  the  presence  of  Public  Opinion  as  a 
detective,  and  accordingly  is  apt  to  pinion  himself 
in  his  Sunday  suit.  It  is  a  curious  commentary  on 


36  FIRESIDE    TRAVELS. 

the  artificiality  of  our  lives,  that  men  must  be  dis 
guised  and  masked  before  they  will  venture  into  the 
obscurer  corners  of  their  individuality,  and  display  the 
true  features  of  their  nature.  One  remarked  it  in 
the  Carnival,  and  one  especially  noted  it  here  among 
a  race  naturally  self -restrained ;  for  Silas  and  Ezra 
and  Jonas  were  not  only  disguised  as  Redcoats,  Con 
tinentals,  and  Indians,  but  not  unfrequently  disguised 
in  drink  also.  It  is  a  question  whether  the  Lyceum 
where  the  public  is  obliged  to  comprehend  all  vagrom 
men,  supplies  the  place  of  the  old  popular  amuse 
ments.  A  hundred  and  fifty  years  ago,  Cotton  Mather 
bewails  the  carnal  attractions  of  the  tavern  and  the 
training-field,  and  tells  of  an  old  Indian  who  imper 
fectly  understood  the  English  tongue,  but  desperately 
mastered  enough  of  it  (when  under  sentence  of  death) 
to  express  a  desire  for  instant  hemp  rather  than  listen 
to  any  more  ghostly  consolations.  Puritanism  —  I 
am  perfectly  aware  how  great  a  debt  we  owe  it  —  tried 
over  again  the  old  experiment  of  driving  out  nature 
with  a  pitchfork,  and  had  the  usual  success.  It  was 
like  a  ship  inwardly  on  fire,  whose  hatches  must  be 
kept  hermetically  battened  down;  for  the  admittance 
of  an  ounce  of  Heaven's  own  natural  air  would  ex 
plode  it  utterly.  Morals  can  never  be  safely  embodied 
in  the  constable.  Polished,  cultivated,  fascinating 
Mephistopheles  !  it  is  for  the  ungovernable  breakings- 
away  of  the  soul  from  unnatural  compressions  that 
thou  waitest  with  a  deprecatory  smile.  Then  it  is 
that  thou  offerest  thy  gentlemanly  arm  to  unguarded 
youth  for  a  pleasant  stroll  through  the  City  of  De- 


CAMBRIDGE    THIRTY    YEARS  AGO.        37 

struction,  and,  as  a  special  favor,  introducest  him 
to  the  bewitching  Miss_Circe,  and  to  that  model 
of  the  hospitable  old  English  gentleman,  Mr. 

COJXLUS! 

But  the  Muster  and  the  Cornwallis  were  not 
peculiar  to  Cambridge.  Commencement-day  was. 
Saint  Pedagogus  was  a  worthy  whose  feast  could  be 
celebrated  by  men  who  quarrelled  with  minced-pies, 
and  blasphemed  custard  through  the  nose.  The 
holiday  preserved  all  the  features  of  an  English  fair. 
Stations  were  marked  out  beforehand  by  the  town 
constables,  and  distinguished  by  numbered  stakes. 
These  were  assigned  to  the  different  venders  of  small 
wares  and  exhibitors  of  rarities,  whose  canvas  booths, 
beginning  at  the  market-place,  sometimes  half  en 
circled  the  Common  with  their  jovial  embrace.  Now 
all  the  Jehoiada-boxes  in  town  were  forced  to  give 
up  their  rattling  deposits  of  specie,  if  not  through  the 
legitimate  orifice,  then  to  the  brute  force  of  the  ham 
mer.  For  hither  were  come  all  the  wonders  of  the 
world,  making  the  Arabian  Nights  seem  possible,  and 
which  we  beheld  for  half  price;  not  without  min 
gled  emotions,  —  pleasure  at  the  economy,  and  shame 
at  not  paying  the  more  manly  fee.  Here  the  mummy 
unveiled  her  withered  charms,  —  a  more  marvellous 
Ninon,  still  attractive  in  her  three-thousandth  year. 
Here  were  the  Siamese  twins ;  ah !  if  all  such  forced 
and  unnatural  unions  were  made  a  show  of!  Here 
were  the  flying  horses  (their  supernatural  effect  in 
jured  —  like  that  of  some  poems  —  by  the  visibility 
of  the  man  who  turned  the  crank),  on  which,  as  we 


38  FIRESIDE    TRAVELS. 

tilted  at  the  ring,  we  felt  our  shoulders  tingle  with  the 
accolade,  and  heard  the  clink  of  golden  spurs  at  our 
heels.  Are  the  realities  of  life  ever  worth  half  so 
much  as  its  cheats?  And  are  there  any  feasts  half  so 
filling  at  the  price  as  those  Barmecide  ones  spread 
for  us  by  Imagination?  Hither  came  the  Canadian 
giant,  surreptitiously  seen,  without  price,  as  he 
alighted,  in  broad  day,  (giants  were  always  foolish,) 
at  the  tavern.  Hither  came  the  great  horse  Columbus, 
with  shoes  two  inches  thick,  and  more  wisely  intro 
duced  by  night.  In  the  trough  of  the  town-pump 
might  be  seen  the  mermaid,  its  poor  monkey's  head 
carefully  sustained  above  water,  to  keep  it  from  drown 
ing.  There  were  dwarfs,  also,  who  danced  and  sang, 
and  many  a  proprietor  regretted  the  transaudient 
properties  of  canvas,  which  allowed  the  frugal  public 
to  share  in  the  melody  without  entering  the  booth.  Is 
it  a  slander  of  J.  H.,  who  reports  that  he  once  saw  a 
deacon,  eminent  for  psalmody,  lingering  near  one  of 
those  vocal  tents,  and,  with  an  assumed  air  of  abstrac 
tion,  furtively  drinking  in,  with  unhabitual  ears,  a 
song,  not  secular  merely,  but  with  a  dash  of  libertin 
ism?  The  New  England  proverb  says,  "All  deacons 
are  good,  but  —  there  's  odds  in  deacons."  On  these 
days  Snow  became  superterranean,  and  had  a  stand 
in  the  square,  and  Lewis  temperately  contended  with 
the  stronger  fascinations  of  egg-pop.  But  space 
would  fail  me  to  make  a  catalogue  of  everything. 
No  doubt,  Wisdom  also,  as  usual,  had  her  quiet  booth 
at  the  corner  of  some  street,  without  entrance-fee, 
and,  even  at  that  rate,  got  never  a  customer  the  whole 


CAMBRIDGE    THIRTY    YEARS  AGO.       39 

day  long.     For  the  bankrupt  afternoon  there  were 
peep-shows,  at  a  cent  each. 

But  all  these  shows  and  their  showmen  are  as  clean 
gone  now  as  those  of  Caesar  and  Timour  and  Napo 
leon,  for  which  the  world  paid  dearer.  They  are 
utterly  gone  out,  not  leaving  so  much  as  a  snuff  be 
hind,  —  as  little  thought  of  now  as  that  John  Robins, 
who  was  once  so  considerable  a  phenomenon  as  to  be 
esteemed  the  last  great  Antichrist  and  son  of  perdi 
tion  by  the  entire  sect  of  Muggletonians.  Were 
Commencement  what  it  used  to  be,  I  should  be 
tempted  to  take  a  booth  myself,  and  try  an  experi 
ment  recommended  by  a  satirist  of  some  merit,  whose 
works  were  long  ago  dead  and  (I  fear)  deedeed  to 
boot. 

"  Menenius,  thou  who  fain  wouldst  know  how  calmly  men  can 

pass 
Those   biting  portraits  of  themselves,  disguised  as  fox  or 

ass, — 

Go  borrow  coin  enough  to  buy  a  full-length  psyche-glass, 
Engage  a  rather  darkish  room  in  some  well-sought  position 
And  let  the  town  break  out  with  bills,  so  much  per  head 

admission,  — 
GREAT  NATURAL   CURIOSITY!  !     THE  BIGGEST  LIVING 

FOOL! ! 

Arrange  your  mirror  cleverly,  before  it  set  a  stool, 
Admit  the  public  one  by  one,  place  each  upon  the  seat, 
Draw  up  the  curtain,  let  him  look  his  fill  and  then  retreat. 
Smith    mounts    and   takes   a   thorough   view,   then   comes 

serenely  down, 
Goes  home  and  tells  his  wife  the  thing  is  curiously  like 

Brown ; 
Brown  goes  and  stares,  and  tells  his  wife  the  wonder's  core 

and  pith 

Is  that  't  is  just  the  counterpart  of  that  conceited  Smith. 
Life  calls  us  all  to  such  a  show :  Menenius,  trust  in  me, 
While  thou  to  see  thy  neighbor  smil'st,  he  does  the  same 

for  thee." 


40  FIRESIDE    TRAVELS. 

My  dear  Storg,  would  you  come  to  my  show,  and, 
instead  of  looking  in  my  glass,  insist  on  taking  your 
money's  worth  in  staring  at  the  exhibitor? 

Not  least  among  the  curiosities  which  the  day 
brought  together  were  some  of  the  graduates,  pos 
thumous  men,  as  it  were,  disentombed  from  country 
parishes  and  district  schools,  but  perennial  also,  in 
whom  freshly  survived  all  the  college  jokes,  and  who 
had  no  intelligence  later  than  their  Senior  year. 
These  had  gathered  to  eat  the  College  dinner,  and  to 
get  the  Triennial  Catalogue  (their  libra  d'oro),  re 
ferred  to  oftener  than  any  volume  but  the  Concordance. 
Aspiring  men  they  were  certainly,  but  in  a  right  un 
worldly  way ;  this  scholastic  festival  opening  a  peace 
ful  path  to  the  ambition  which  might  else  have  devas 
tated  mankind  with  Prolusions  on  the  Pentateuch, 
or  Genealogies  of  the  Dormouse  Family.  For  since 
in  the  academic  processions  the  classes  are  ranked  in 
the  order  of  their  graduation,  and  he  has  the  best 
chance  at  the  dinner  who  has  the  fewest  teeth  to  eat 
it  with,  so,  by  degrees,  there  springs  up  a  competition 
in  longevity,  —  the  prize  contended  for  being  the 
oldest  surviving  graduateship.  This  is  an  office,  it 
is  true,  without  emolument,  but  having  certain  ad 
vantages,  nevertheless.  The  incumbent,  if  he  come 
to  Commencement,  is  a  prodigious  lion,  and  com 
monly  gets  a  paragraph  in  the  newspapers  once  a 
year  with  the  (fiftieth)  last  survivor  of  Washington's 
Life-Guard.  If  a  clergyman,  he  is  expected  to  ask 
a  blessing  and  return  thanks  at  the  dinner,  a  function 
which  he  performs  with  centenarian  longanimity,  as 


CAMBRIDGE   THIRTY   YEARS  AGO.        41 

if  he  reckoned  the  ordinary  life  of  man  to  be  fivescore 
years,  and  that  a  grace  must  be  long  to  reach  so  far 
away  as  heaven.  Accordingly,  this  silent  race  is 
watched,  on  the  course  of  the  Catalogue,  with  an 
interest  worthy  of  Newmarket;  and  as  star  after  star 
rises  in  the  galaxy  of  death,  till  one  name  is  left  alone, 
an  oasis  of  life  in  the  stellar  desert,  it  grows  solemn. 
The  natural  feeling  is  reversed,  and  it  is  the  solitary 
life  that  becomes  sad  and  monitory,  the  Stylites  there 
on  the  lonely  top  of  his  century-pillar,  who  has  heard 
the  passing-bell  of  youth,  love,  friendship,  hope,  — 
of  everything  but  immitigable  eld. 

Dr.  K.  was  President  of  the  University  then,  a  man 
of  genius,  but  of  genius  that  evaded  utilization,  —  a 
great  water-power,  but  without  rapids,  and  flowing 
with  too  smooth  and  gentle  a  current  to  be  set  turning 
wheels  and  whirling  spindles.  His  was  not  that  rest 
less  genius  of  which  the  man  seems  to  be  merely  the 
representative,  and  which  wreaks  itself  in  literature  or 
politics,  but  of  that  milder  sort,  quite  as  genuine,  and 
perhaps  of  more  contemporaneous  value,  which  is 
the  man,  permeating  the  whole  life  with  placid  force, 
and  giving  to  word,  look,  and  gesture  a  meaning  only 
justifiable  by  our  belief  in  a  reserved  power  of  latent 
reinforcement.  The  man  of  talents  possesses  them 
like  so  many  tools,  does  his  job  with  them,  and  there 
an  end ;  but  the  man  of  genius  is  possessed  by  it,  and 
it  makes  him  into  a  book  or  a  life  according  to  its 
whim.  Talent  takes  the  existing  moulds,  and  makes 
its  castings,  better  or  worse,  of  richer  or  baser  metal, 
according  to  knack  and  opportunity;  but  genius  is 


42  FIRESIDE    TRAVELS. 

always  shaping  new  ones,  and  runs  the  man  in  them, 
so  that  there  is  always  that  human  feel  in  its  results 
which  gives  us  a  kindred  thrill.  What  it  will  make, 
we  can  only  conjecture,  contented  always  with  know 
ing  the  infinite  balance  of  possibility  against  which  it 
can  draw  at  pleasure.  Have  you  ever  seen  a  man 
whose  check  would  be  honored  for  a  million  pay  his 
toll  of  one  cent?  and  has  not  that  bit  of  copper,  no 
bigger  than  your  own,  and  piled  with  it  by  the  careless 
toll -man,  given  you  a  tingling  vision  of  what  golden 
bridges  he  could  pass,  —  into  what  Elysian  regions  of 
taste  and  enjoyment  and  culture,  barred  to  the  rest 
of  us?  Something  like  it  is  the  impression  made  by 
such  characters  as  K.'s  on  those  who  come  in  contact 
with  them. 

There  was  that  in  the  soft  and  rounded  (I  had 
almost  said  melting)  outlines  of  his  face  which  re 
minded  one  of  Chaucer.  The  head  had  a  placid  yet 
dignified  droop  like  his.  He  was  an  anachronism, 
fitter  to  have  been  Abbot  of  Fountains  or  Bishop 
Golias,  courtier  and  priest,  humorist  and  lord  spiritual, 
all  in  one,  than  for  the  mastership  of  a  provincial 
college,  which  combined,  with  its  purely  scholastic 
functions,  those  of  accountant  and  chief  of  police. 
For  keeping  books  he  was  incompetent  (unless  it  were 
those  he  borrowed),  and  the  only  discipline  he  exer 
cised  was  by  the  unobtrusive  pressure  of  a  gentle- 
manliness  which  rendered  insubordination  to  him 
impossible.  But  the  world  always  judges  a  man 
(and  rightly  enough,  too)  by  his  little  faults,  which  he 
shows  a  hundred  times  a  day,  rather  than  by  his  great 


CAMBRIDGE    THIRTY   YEARS  AGO.       43 

virtues,  which  he  discloses  perhaps  but  once  in  a  life 
time,  and  to  a  single  person,  —  nay,  in  proportion  as 
they  are  rarer,  and  he  is  nobler,  is  shyer  of  letting  their 
existence  be  known  at  all.  He  was  one  of  those  mis 
placed  persons  whose  misfortune  it  is  that  their  lives 
overlap  two  distinct  eras,  and  are  already  so  impreg 
nated  with  one  that  they  can  never  be  in  healthy  sym 
pathy  with  the  other.  Born  when  the  New  England 
clergy  were  still  an  establishment  and  an  aristocracy, 
and  when  office  was  almost  always  for  life,  and  often 
hereditary,  he  lived  to  be  thrown  upon  a  time  when 
avocations  of  all  colors  might  be  shuffled  together  in 
the  life  of  one  man,  like  a  pack  of  cards,  so  that  you 
could  not  prophesy  that  he  who  was  ordained  to-day 
might  not  accept  a  colonelcy  of  filibusters  to-morrow. 
Such  temperaments  as  his  attach  themselves,  like 
barnacles,  to  what  seems  permanent;  but  presently 
the  good  ship  Progress  weighs  anchor,  and  whirls 
them  away  from  drowsy  tropic  inlets  to  arctic  waters 
of  unnatural  ice.  To  such  crustaceous  natures, 
created  to  cling  upon  the  immemorial  rock  amid 
softest  mosses,  comes  the  bustling  Nineteenth  Century 
and  says,  "Come,  come,  bestir  yourself  and  be  prac 
tical!  get  out  of  that  old  shell  of  yours  forthwith!" 
Alas !  to  get  out  of  the  shell  is  to  die  ! 

One  of  the  old  travellers  in  South  America  tells  of 
fishes  that  built  their  nests  in  trees  (piscium  et  summa 
hasit  genus  ulmo),  and  gives  a  print  of  the  mother  fish 
upon  her  nest,  while  her  mate  mounts  perpendicularly 
to  her  without  aid  of  legs  or  wings.  Life  shows  plenty 
of  such  incongruities  between  a  man's  place  and  his 


44  FIRESIDE    TRAVELS. 

nature,  (not  so  easily  got  over  as  by  the  traveller's 
undoubting  engraver,)  and  one  cannot  help  fancying 
that  K.  was  an  instance  in  point.  He  never  en 
countered,  one  would  say,  the  attraction  proper  to 
draw  out  his  native  force.  Certainly,  few  men  who 
impressed  others  so  strongly,  and  of  whom  so  many 
good  things  are  remembered,  left  less  behind  them  to 
justify  contemporary  estimates.  He  printed  nothing, 
and  was,  perhaps,  one  of  those  the  electric  sparkles 
of  whose  brains,  discharged  naturally  and  healthily 
in  conversation,  refuse  to  pass  through  the  noncon 
ducting  medium  of  the  inkstand.  His  ana  would 
make  a  delightful  collection.  One  or  two  of  his  official 
ones  will  be  in  place  here.  Hearing  that  Porter's  flip 
(which  was  exemplary)  had  too  great  an  attraction 
for  the  collegians,  he  resolved  to  investigate  the  matter 
himself.  Accordingly,  entering  the  old  inn  one  day, 
he  called  for  a  mug  of  it,  and,  having  drunk  it,  said, 
"And  so,  Mr.  Porter,  the  young  gentlemen  come  to 
drink  your  flip,  do  they?"  "Yes,  sir,  —  sometimes." 
"Ah,  well,  I  should  think  they  would.  Good  day, 
Mr.  Porter,"  and  departed,  saying  nothing  more;  for 
he  always  wisely  allowed  for  the  existence  of  a  certain 
amount  of  human  nature  in  ingenuous  youth.  At 
another  time  the  "Harvard  Washington"  asked  leave 
to  go  into  Boston  to  a  collation  which  had  been  offered 
them.  "Certainly,  young  gentlemen,"  said  the  Presi 
dent,  "but  have  you  engaged  any  one  to  bring  home 
your  muskets?"  —the  College  being  responsible  for 
these  weapons,  which  belonged  to  the  State.  Again, 
when  a  student  came  with  a  physician's  certificate, 


CAMBRIDGE    THIRTY  YEARS  AGO.        45 

and  asked  leave  of  absence,  K.  granted  it  at  once,  and 
then  added,  "By  the  way,  Mr. ,  persons  inter 
ested  in  the  relation  which  exists  between  states  of  the 
atmosphere  and  health  have  noticed  a  curious  fact  in 
regard  to  the  climate  of  Cambridge,  especially  within 
the  College  limits,  —  the  very  small  number  of  deaths 
in  proportion  to  the  cases  of  dangerous  illness."  This 
is  told  of  Judge  W.,  himself  a  wit,  and  capable  of  en 
joying  the  humorous  delicacy  of  the  reproof. 

Shall  I  take  Brahmin  Alcott's  favorite  word,  and 
call  him  a  daemonic  man?  No,  the  Latin  genius  is 
quite  old-fashioned  enough  for  me,  means  the  same 
thing,  and  its  derivative  geniality  expresses,  moreover, 
the  base  of  K.'s  being.  How  he  suggested  cloistered 
repose,  and  quadrangles  mossy  with  centurial  asso 
ciations  !  How  easy  he  was,  and  how  without  creak 
was  every  movement  of  his  mind  !  This  life  was  good 
enough  for  him,  and  the  next  not  too  good.  The 
gentleman-like  pervaded  even  his  prayers.  His  were 
not  the  manners  of  a  man  of  the  world,  nor  of  a  man 
of  the  other  world  either;  but  both  met  in  him  to 
balance  each  other  in  a  beautiful  equilibrium.  Pray 
ing,  he  leaned  forward  upon  the  pulpit-cushion  as  for 
conversation,  and  seemed  to  feel  himself  (without 
irreverence)  on  terms  of  friendly  but  courteous, 
familiarity  with  Heaven.  The  expression  of  his  face 
was  that  of  tranquil  contentment,  and  he  appeared 
less  to  be  supplicating  expected  mercies  than  thankful 
for  those  already  found,  —  as  if  he  were  saying  the 
gratias  in  the  refectory  of  the  Abbey  of  Theleme. 
Under  him  flourished  the  Harvard  Washington  Corps, 


46  FIRESIDE    TRAVELS. 

whose  gyrating  banner,  inscribed  Tarn  Marti  quam 
Mer curio  (atqui  magis  Lyceo  should  have  been  added), 
on  the  evening  of  training-days  was  an  accurate 
dynamometer  of  Willard's  punch  or  Porter's  flip. 
,  It  was  they  who,  after  being  royally  entertained  by  a 
maiden  lady  of  the  town,  entered  in  their  orderly  book 
a  vote  that  Miss  Blank  was  a  gentleman.  I  see  them 
now,  returning  from  the  imminent  deadly  breach  of 
the  law  of  Rechab,  unable  to  form  other  than  the  ser 
pentine  line  of  beauty,  while  their  officers,  brotherly 
rather  than  imperious,  instead  of  reprimanding,  tear 
fully  embraced  the  more  eccentric  wanderers  from 
military  precision.  Under  him  the  Med.  Facs.  took 
their  equal  place  among  the  learned  societies  of 
Europe,  numbering  among  their  grateful  honorary 
members,  Alexander,  Emperor  of  all  the  Russias,  who 
(if  College  legends  may  be  trusted)  sent  them  in 
return  for  their  diploma  a  gift  of  medals  confiscated 
by  the  authorities.  Under  him  the  College  fire- 
engine  was  vigilant  and  active  in  suppressing  any 
tendency  to  spontaneous  combustion  among  the 
Freshmen,  or  rushed  wildly  to  imaginary  confla 
grations,  generally  in  a  direction  where  punch  was  to 
be  had.  All  these  useful  conductors  for  the  natural 
electricity  of  youth,  dispersing  it  or  turning  it  harm 
lessly  into  the  earth,  are  taken  away  now,  —  wisely 
or  not,  is  questionable. 

An  academic  town,  in  whose  atmosphere  there  is 
always  something  antiseptic,  seems  naturally  to  draw 
to  itself  certain  varieties  and  to  preserve  certain 
humors  (in  the  Ben  Jonsonian  sense)  of  character,  — 


CAMBRIDGE    THIRTY    YEARS   AGO.       47 

men  who  come  not  to  study  so  much  as  to  be  studied. 
At  the  head-quarters  of  Washington  once,  and  now 

of  the  Muses,  lived  C ,  but  before  the  date  of  these 

recollections.  Here  for  seven  years  (as  the  law  was 
then)  he  made  his  house  his  castle,  sunning  himself 
in  his  elbow-chair  at  the  front-door,  on  that  seventh 
day,  secure  from  every  arrest  but  Death's.  Here  long 
survived  him  his  turbaned  widow,  studious  only  of 
Spinoza,  and  refusing  to  molest  the  canker-worms 
that  annually  disleaved  her  elms,  because  we  were  all 
vermicular  alike.  She  had  been  a  famous  beauty 
once,  but  the  canker  years  had  left  her  leafless,  too; 
and  I  used  to  wonder,  as  I  saw  her  sitting  always  alone 
at  her  accustomed  window,  whether  she  were  ever 
visited  by  the  reproachful  shade  of  him  who  (in  spite 
of  Rosalind)  died  broken-hearted  for  her  in  her 
radiant  youth. 

And  this  reminds  me  of  J.  F.,  who,  also  crossed  in 
love,  allowed  no  mortal  eye  to  behold  his  face  for  many 
years.  The  eremitic  instinct  is  not  peculiar  to  the 
Thebais,  as  many  a  New  England  village  can  testify; 
and  it  is  worthy  of  consideration  that  the  Romish 
Church  has  not  forgotten  this  among  her  other  points 
of  intimate  contact  with  human  nature.  F.  became 
purely  vespertinal,  never  stirring  abroad  till  after  dark. 
He  occupied  two  rooms,  migrating  from  one  to  the 
other,  as  the  necessities  of  housewifery  demanded, 
thus  shunning  all  sight  of  womankind,  and  being 
practically  more  solitary  in  his  dual  apartment  than 
Montaigne's  Dean  of  St.  Hilaire  in  his  single  one. 
When  it  was  requisite  that  he  should  put  his  signature 


48  FIRESIDE    TRAVELS. 

to  any  legal  instrument,  (for  he  was  an  anchorite  of 
ample  means,)  he  wrapped  himself  in  a  blanket,  allow 
ing  nothing  to  be  seen  but  the  hand  which  acted  as 
scribe.  What  impressed  us  boys  more  than  any 
thing  else  was  the  rumor  that  he  had  suffered  his  beard 
to  grow,  —  such  an  anti-Sheffieldism  being  almost 
unheard  of  in  those  days,  and  the  peculiar  ornament 
of  man  being  associated  in  our  minds  with  nothing 
more  recent  than  the  patriarchs  and  apostles,  whose 
effigies  we  were  obliged  to  solace  ourselves  with  weekly 
in  the  Family  Bible.  He  came  out  of  his  oysterhood 
at  last,  and  I  knew  him  well,  a  kind-hearted  man,  who 
gave  annual  sleigh-rides  to  the  town-paupers,  and 
supplied  the  poor  children  with  school-books.  His 
favorite  topic  of  conversation  was  Eternity,  and,  like 
many  other  worthy  persons  he  used  to  fancy  that 
meaning  was  an  affair  of  aggregation,  and  that  lie 
doubled  the  intensity  of  what  he  said  by  the  sole  aid 
of  the  multiplication-table.  " Eternity!"  he  used  to 
say,  "it  is  not  a  day;  it  is  not  a  year;  it  is  not  a  hun 
dred  years;  it  is  not  a  thousand  years;  it  is  not  a 
million  years;  no,  sir,"  (the  sir  being  thrown  in  to 
recall  wandering  attention,)  "it  is  not  ten  million 
years!"  and  so  on,  his  enthusiasm  becoming  a  mere 
frenzy  when  he  got  among  his  sextillions,  till  I  some 
times  wished  he  had  continued  in  retirement.  He 
used  to  sit  at  the  open  window  during  thunder-storms, 
and  had  a  Grecian  feeling  about  death  by  lightning. 
In  a  certain  sense  he  had  his  desire,  for  he  died  sud 
denly,  —  not  by  fire  from  heaven,  but  by  the  red  flash 
of  apoplexy,  leaving  his  whole  estate  to  charitable  uses. 


CAMBRIDGE    THIRTY   YEARS  AGO.       49 

If  K.  were  out  of  place  as  President,  that  was  not 
P.  as  Greek  Professor.  Who  that  ever  saw  him  can 
forget  him,  in  his  old  age,  like  a  lusty  winter,  frosty 
but  kindly,  with  great  silver  spectacles  of  the  heroic 
period,  such  as  scarce  twelve  noses  of  these  degen 
erate  days  could  bear?  He  was  a  natural  celibate, 
not  dwelling  "like  the  fly  in  the  heart  of  the  apple," 
but  like  a  lonely  bee  rather,  absconding  himself  in 
Hymettian  flowers,  incapable  of  matrimony  as  a  soli 
tary  palm-tree.  There  was,  to  be  sure,  a  tradition  of 
youthful  disappointment,  and  a  touching  story  which 
L.  told  me  perhaps  confirms  it.  When  Mrs.  - 
died,  a  carriage  with  blinds  drawn  followed  the  funeral 
train  at  some  distance,  and,  when  the  coffin  had  been 
lowered  into  the  grave,  drove  hastily  away  to  escape 
that  saddest  of  earthly  sounds,  the  first  rattle  of  earth 
upon  the  lid.  It  was  afterwards  known  that  the  car 
riage  held  a  single  mourner,  —  our  grim  and  un 
demonstrative  Professor.  Yet  I  cannot  bring  myself 
to  suppose  him  susceptible  to  any  tender  passion  after 
that  single  lapse  in  the  immaturity  of  reason.  He 
might  have  joined  the  Abderites  in  singing  their  mad 
chorus  from  the  Andromeda;  but  it  would  have  been 
in  deference  to  the  language  merely,  and  with  a  silent 
protest  against  the  sentiment.  I  fancy  him  arrang 
ing  his  scrupulous  toilet,  not  for  Amaryllis  or  Neaera, 
but,  like  Machiavelli,  for  the  society  of  his  beloved 
classics.  His  ears  had  needed  no  prophylactic  wax 
to  pass  the  Sirens'  isle ;  nay,  he  would  have  kept  them 
the  wider  open,  studious  of  the  dialect  in  which  they 
sang,  and  perhaps  triumphantly  detecting  the 


50  FIRESIDE    TRAVELS. 

digamma  in  their  lay.  A  thoroughly  single  man,  single- 
minded,  single-hearted,  buttoning  over  his  single 
heart  a  single-breasted  surtout,  and  wearing  always  a 
hat  of  a  single  fashion,  —  did  he  in  secret  regard  the 
dual  number  of  his  favorite  language  as  a  weakness? 
The  son  of  an  officer  of  distinction  in  the  Revolutionary 
War,  he  mounted  the  pulpit  with  the  erect  port  of  a 
soldier,  and  carried  his  cane  more  in  the  fashion  of  a 
weapon  than  a  staff,  but  with  the  point  lowered,  in 
token  of  surrender  to  the  peaceful  proprieties  of  his 
calling.  Yet  sometimes  the  martial  instincts  would 
burst  the  cerements  of  black  coat  and  clerical  neck 
cloth,  as  once,  when  the  students  had  got  into  a  fight 
upon  the  training-field,  and  the  licentious  soldiery, 
furious  with  rum,  had  driven  them  at  point  of  bayonet, 
to  the  College  gates,  and  even  threatened  to  lift  their 
arms  against  the  Muses'  bower.  Then,  like  Major 
Goffe  at  Deerfield,  suddenly  appeared  the  gray- 
haired  P.,  all  his  father  resurgent  in  him,  and  shouted: 
"Now,  my  lads,  stand  your  ground,  you  're  in  the 
right  now !  Don't  let  one  of  them  set  foot  within  the 
College  grounds!"  Thus  he  allowed  arms  to  get 
the  better  of  the  toga,  but  raised  it,  like  the  Prophet's 
breeches,  into  a  banner,  and  carefully  ushered  re 
sistance  with  a  preamble  of  infringed  right.  Fidelity 
was  his  strong  characteristic,  and  burned  equably  in 
him  through  a  life  of  eighty-three  years.  He  drilled 
himself  till  inflexible  habit  stood  sentinel  before  all 
those  postern-weaknesses  which  temperament  leaves 
unbolted  to  temptation.  A  lover  of  the  scholar's  herb 
yet  loving  freedom  more,  and  knowing  that  the  animal 


CAMBRIDGE    THIRTY  YEARS  AGO.        5 1 

appetites  ever  hold  one  hand  behind  them  for  Satan 
to  drop  a  bribe  in,  he  would  never  have  two  cigars  in 
his  house  at  once,  but  walked  every  day  to  the  shop 
to  fetch  his  single  diurnal  solace.  Nor  would  he 
trust  himself  with  two  on  Saturdays,  preferring  (since 
he  could  not  violate  the  Sabbath  even  by  that  infini 
tesimal  traffic)  to  depend  on  Providential  ravens, 
which  were  seldom  wanting  in  the  shape  of  some 
black-coated  friend  who  knew  his  need,  and  honored 
the  scruple  that  occasioned  it.  He  was  faithful,  also, 
to  his  old  hats,  in  which  appeared  the  constant  service 
of  the  antique  world,  and  which  he  preserved  forever, 
piled  like  a  black  pagoda  under  his  dressing-table. 
No  scarecrow  was  ever  the  residuary  legatee  of  his 
"  beavers,  though  one  of  them  in  any  of  the  neighboring 
peach-orchards  would  have  been  sovereign  against 
an  attack  of  Freshmen.  He  wore  them  all  in  turn, 
getting  though  all  in  the  course  of  the  year,  like  the 
sun  through  the  signs  of  the  zodiac,  modulating  them 
according  to  seasons  and  celestial  phenomena,  so  that 
never  was  spider-web  or  chickweed  so  sensitive  a 
weather-gauge  as  they.  Nor  did  his  political  party 
find  him  less  loyal.  Taking  all  the  tickets,  he  would 
seat  himself  apart,  and  carefully  compare  them  with 
the  list  of  regular  nominations  as  printed  in  his  Daily 
Advertiser,  before  he  dropped  his  ballot  in  the  box. 
In  less  ambitious  moments,  it  almost  seems  to  me 
that  I  would  rather  have  had  that  slow,  conscientious 
vote  of  P.'s  alone,  than  to  have  been  chosen  Alderman 
of  the  Ward ! 

If  you  had  walked  to  what  was  then  Sweet  Auburn 


52  FIRESIDE    TRAVELS. 

by  the  pleasant  Old  Road,  on  some  June  morning 
thirty  years  ago,  you  would  very  likely  have  met  two 
other  characteristic  persons,  both  phantasmagoric 
now,  and  belonging  to  the  past.  Fifty  years  earlier, 
the  scarlet-coated,  rapiered  figures  of  Vassall,  Lech- 
mere,  Oliver,  and  Brattle  creaked  up  and  down  there 
on  red-heeled  shoes,  lifting  the  ceremonious  three- 
cornered  hat,  and  offering  the  fugacious  hospitalities 
of  the  snuff-box.  They  are  all  shadowy  alike  now, 
not  one  of  your  Etruscan  Lucumos  or  Roman  Consuls 
more  so,  my  dear  Storg.  First  is  W.,  his  queue  slender 
and  tapering,  like  the  tail  of  a  violet  crab,  held  out 
horizontally  by  the  high  collar  of  his  shepherd' s-gray 
overcoat,  whose  style  was  of  the  latest  when  he  studied 
at  Leyden  in  his  hot  youth.  The  age  of  cheap  clothes 
sees  no  more  of  those  faithful  old  garments,  as  proper 
to  their  wearers  and  as  distinctive  as  the  barks  of 
trees,  and  by  long  use  interpenetrated  with  their  very 
nature.  Nor  do  we  see  so  many  Humors  (still  in  the 
old  sense)  now  that  every  man's  soul  belongs  to  the 
Public,  as  when  social  distinctions  were  more  marked, 
and  men  felt  that  their  personalities  were  their  castles, 
in  which  they  could  intrench  themselves  against  the 
world.  Nowadays  men  are  shy  of  letting  their  true 
selves  be  seen,  as  if  in  some  former  life  they  had  com 
mitted  a  crime,  and  were  all  the  time  afraid  of  dis 
covery  and  arrest  in  this.  Formerly  they  used  to 
insist  on  your  giving  the  wall  to  their  peculiarities,  and 
you  may  still  find  examples  of  it  in  the  parson  or  the 
doctor  of  retired  villages.  One  of  W.'s  oddities  was 
touching.  A  little  brook  used  to  run  across  the  street, 


CAMBRIDGE    THIRTY    YEARS  AGO.        53 

and  the  sidewalk  was  carried  over  it  by  a  broad  stone, 
Of  course  there  is  no  brook  now.  What  use  did  that 
little  glimpse  of  a  ripple  serve,  where  the  children  used 
to  launch  their  chip  fleets?  W.,  in  going  over  this 
stone,  which  gave  a  hollow  resonance  to  the  tread, 
had  a  trick  of  striking  upon  it  three  times  with  his 
cane,  and  muttering,  "Tom,  Tom,  Tom!"  I  used 
to  think  he  was  only  mimicking  with  his  voice  the 
sound  of  the  blows,  and  possibly  it  was  that  sound 
which  suggested  his  thought,  for  he  was  remembering 
a  favorite  nephew,  prematurely  dead.  Perhaps  Tom 
had  sailed  his  boats  there;  perhaps  the  reverberation 
under  the  old  man's  foot  hinted  at  the  hollowness  of 
life;  perhaps  the  fleeting  eddies  of  the  water  brought 
to  mind  the  jugaces  annos.  W.,  like  P.,  wore  amazing 
spectacles,  fit  to  transmit  no  smaller  image  than  the 
page  of  mightiest  folios  of  Dioscorides  or  Hercules  de 
Saxonia,  and  rising  full-disked  upon  the  beholder 
like  those  prodigies  of  two  moons  at  once,  portending 
change  to  monarchs.  The  great  collar  disallowing 
any  independent  rotation  of  the  head,  I  remember  he 
used  to  turn  his  whole  person  in  order  to  bring  their 
joci  to  bear  upon  an  object.  One  can  fancy  that 
terrified  nature  would  have  yielded  up  her  secrets  at 
once,  without  cross-examination,  at  their  first  glare. 
Through  them  he  had  gazed  fondly  into  the  great 
mare's-nest  of  Junius,  publishing  his  observations 
upon  the  eggs  found  therein  in  a  tall  octavo.  It  was 
he  who  introduced  vaccination  to  this  Western  World. 
Malicious  persons  disputing  his  claim  to  this  distinc 
tion,  he  published  this  advertisement:  "Lost,  a  gold 


54  FIRESIDE    TRAVELS. 

snuff-box,  with  the  inscription,  'The  Jenner  of  the 
Old  World  to  the  Jenner  of  the  New.'  Whoever  shall 
return  the  same  to  Dr.  -  -  shall  be  suitably  re 
warded."  It  was  never  returned.  Would  the  search 
after  it  have  been  as  fruitless  as  that  of  the  alchemist 
after  his  equally  imaginary  gold?  Malicious  persons 
persisted  in  believing  the  box  as  visionary  as  the  claim 
it  was  meant  to  buttress  with  a  semblance  of  reality. 
He  used  to  stop  and  say  good  morning  kindly,  and  pat 
the  shoulder  of  the  blushing  school-boy  who  now, 
with  the  fierce  snow-storm  wildering  without,  sits 
and  remembers  sadly  those  old  meetings  and  partings 
in  the  June  sunshine. 

Then  there  was  S.,  whose  resounding  "Haw,  haw, 
haw!  by  George!"  positively  enlarged  the  income 
of  every  dweller  in  Cambridge.  In  downright,  honest 
good  cheer  and  good  neighborhood,  it  was  worth  five 
hundred  a  year  to  every  one  of  us.  Its  jovial  thunders 
cleared  the  mental  air  of  every  sulky  cloud.  Perpetual 
childhood  dwelt  in  him,  the  childhood  of  his  native 
Southern  France,  and  its  fixed  air  was  all  the  time 
bubbling  up  and  sparkling  and  winking  in  his  eyes. 
It  seemed  as  if  his  placid  old  face  were  only  a  mask 
behind  which  a  merry  Cupid  had  ambushed  himself, 
peeping  out  all  the  while,  and  ready  to  drop  it  when 
the  play  grew  tiresome.  Every  word  he  uttered 
seemed  to  be  hilarious,  no  matter  what  the  occasion. 
If  he  were  sick,  and  you  visited  him,  if  he  had  met 
with  a  misfortune,  (and  there  are  few  men  so  wise 
that  they  can  look  even  at  the  back  of  a  retiring  sor 
row  with  composure,)  it  was  all  one;  his  great  laugh 


CAMBRIDGE    THIRTY  YEARS  AGO.        55 

went  off  as  if  it  were  set  like  an  alarm-clock,  to  run 
down,  whether  he  would  or  no,  at  a  certain  tick. 
Even  after  an  ordinary  Good  morning!  (especially 
if  to  an  old  pupil,  and  in  French,)  the  wonderful  £Taw, 
haw,  haw!  by  George!  would  burst  upon  you  unex 
pectedly,  like  a  salute  of  artillery  on  some  holiday 
which  you  had  forgotten.  Everything  was  a  joke  to 
i  him,  —  that  the  oath  of  allegiance  had  been  admin- 
j  istered  to  him  by  your  grandfather,  —  that  he  had 
1  taught  Prescott  his  first  Spanish  (of  which  he  was 
\proud), —  no  matter  what.  Everything  came  to 
\hirn  marked  by  Nature  Right  side  up,  with  care,  and 
\he  kept  it  so.  The  world  to  him,  as  to  all  of  us,  was 
like  a  medal,  on  the  obverse  of  which  is  stamped  the 
image  of  Joy,  and  on  the  reverse  that  of  Care.  S. 
never  took  the  foolish  pains  to  look  at  that  other  side, 
even  if  he  knew  its  existence ;  much  less  would  it  have 
occurred  to  him  to  turn  it  into  view,  and  insist  that  his 
friends  should  look  at  it  with  him.  Nor  was  this  a 
mere  outside  good-humor;  its  source  was  deeper,  in 
a  true  Christian  kindliness  and  amenity.  Once,  when 
he  had  been  knocked  down  by  a  tipsily-driven  sleigh, 
and  was  urged  to  prosecute  the  offenders,  "No,  no," 
he  said,  his  wounds  still  fresh,  "young  blood,  young 
blood!  it  must  have  its  way;  I  was  young  myself." 
Was!  few  men  come  into  life  so  young  as  S.  went  out. 
He  landed  in  Boston  (then  the  front  door  of  America) 
in  '93,  and,  in  honor  of  the  ceremony,  had  his  head 
powdered  afresh,  and  put  on  a  suit  of  court-mourning 
before  he  set  foot  on  the  wharf.  My  fancy  always 
dressed  him  in  that  violet  silk,  and  his  soul  certainly 


56  FIRESIDE    TRAVELS. 

wore  a  full  court-suit.  What  was  there  ever  like  his 
bow?  It  was  as  if  you  had  received  a  decoration, 
and  could  write  yourself  gentleman  from  that  day 
forth.  His  hat  rose,  regreeting  your  own,  and,  having 
sailed  through  the  stately  curve  of  the  old  regime, 
sank  gently  back  over  that  placid  brain,  which  har 
bored  no  thought  less  white  than  the  powder  which 
covered  it.  I  have  sometimes  imagined  that  there 
was  a  graduated  arc  over  his  head,  invisible  to  other 
eyes  than  his,  by  which  he  meted  out  to  each  his  right 
ful  share  of  castorial  consideration.  I  carry  in  my 
memory  three  exemplary  bows.  The  first  is  that  of 
an  old  beggar,  who,  already  carrying  in  his  hand  a 
white  hat,  the  gift  of  benevolence,  took  off  the  black 
one  from  his  head  also,  and  profoundly  saluted  me 
with  both  at  once,  giving  me,  in  return  for  my  alms, 
a  dual  benediction,  puzzling  as  a  nod  from  Janus 
Bifrons.  The  second  I  received  from  an  old  Cardinal, 
who  was  taking  his  walk  just  outside  the  Porta  San 
Giovanni  at  Rome.  I  paid  him  the  courtesy  due  to 
his  age  and  rank.  Forthwith  rose,  first,  the  Hat; 
second,  the  hat  of  his  confessor;  third,  that  of  another 
priest  who  attended  him;  fourth,  the  fringed  cocked- 
hat  of  his  coachman;  fifth  and  sixth,  the  ditto,  ditto, 
of  his  two  footmen.  Here  was  an  investment, 
indeed;  six  hundred  per  cent  interest  on  a  single 
bow!  The  third  bow,  worthy  to  be  noted  in 
one's  almanac  among  the  other  mirabilia,  was  that 
of  S.,  in  which  courtesy  had  mounted  to  the 
last  round  of  her  ladder,  —  and  tried  to  draw  it  up 
after  her. 


CAMBRIDGE    THIRTY   YEARS  AGO.       57 

But  the  genial  veteran  is  gone  even  while  I  am 
writing  this,  and  I  will  play  Old  Mortality  no  longer. 
Wandering  among  these  recent  graves,  my  dear  friend, 

we  may  chance  upon ;   but  no,  I  will  not  end  my 

sentence.     I  bid  you  heartily  farewell! 


A  MOOSEHEAD   JOURNAL. 

ADDRESSED   TO   THE   EDELMANN   STORG   AT   THE 
BAGNI    DI   LUCCA. 

THURSDAY,  nth  August.  —  I  knew  as  little  yester 
day  of  the  interior  of  Maine  as  the  least  penetrating 
person  knows  of  the  inside  of  that  great  social  mill 
stone  which,  driven  by  the  river  Time,  sets  impera 
tively  agoing  the  several  wheels  of  our  individual 
activities.  Born  while  Maine  was  still  a  province  of 
native  Massachusetts,  I  was  as  much  a  foreigner  to  it 
as  yourself,  my  dear  Storg.  I  had  seen  many  lakes, 
ranging  from  that  of  Virgil's  Cumaean  to  that  of  Scott's 
Caledonian  Lady;  but  Moosehead,  within  two  days 
of  me,  had  never  enjoyed  the  profit  of  being  mirrored 
in  my  retina.  At  the  sound  of  the  name,  no  remi- 
niscential  atoms  (according  to  Kenelm  Digby's 
Theory  of  Association,  —  as  good  as  any)  stirred  and 
marshalled  themselves  in  my  brain.  The  truth  is, 
we  think  lightly  of  Nature's  penny  shows,  and  esti 
mate  what  we  see  by  the  cost  of  the  ticket.  Em- 
pedocles  gave  his  life  for  a  pit-entrance  to  /Etna,  and 
no  doubt  found  his  account  in  it.  Accordingly,  the 
clean  face  of  Cousin  Bull  is  imaged  patronizingly  in 
Lake  George,  and  Loch  Lomond  glasses  the  hurried 
countenance  of  Jonathan,  diving  deeper  in  the  streams 
of  European  association  (and  coming  up  drier)  than 

58 


A    MuOSEHEAD  JOURNAL.  59 

any  other  man.  Or  is  the  cause  of  our  not  caring  to 
see  what  is  equally  within  the  reach  of  all  our  neigh 
bors  to  be  sought  in  that  aristocratic  principle  so 
deeply  implanted  in  human  nature  ?  I  knew  a  pauper 
graduate  who  always  borrowed  a  black  coat,  and  came 
to  eat  the  Commencement  dinner,  —  not  that  it  was 
better  than  the  one  which  daily  graced  the  board  of 
the  public  institution  in  which  he  hibernated  (so  to 
speak)  during  the  other  three  hundred  and  sixty-four 
days  of  the  year,  save  in  this  one  particular,  that  none 
of  his  eleemosynary  fellow-commoners  could  eat  it. 
If  there  are  unhappy  men  who  wish  that  they  were  as 
the  Babe  Unborn,  there  are  more  who  would  aspire 
to  the  lonely  distinction  of  being  that  other  figurative 
personage,  the  Oldest  Inhabitant.  You  remember 
the  charming  irresolution  of  our  dear  Esthwaite,  (like 
Macheath  between  his  two  doxies,)  divided  between 
his  theory  that  he  is  under  thirty,  and  his  pride  at 
being  the  only  one  of  us  who  witnessed  the  September 
gale  and  the  rejoicings  at  the  Peace?  Nineteen  years 
ago  I  was  walking  through  the  Franconia  Notch,  and 
stopped  to  chat  with  a  hermit,  who  fed  with  gradual 
logs  the  unwearied  teeth  of  a  saw-mill.  As  the  pant 
ing  steel  slit  off  the  slabs  of  the  log,  so  did  the  less 
willing  machine  of  talk,  acquiring  a  steadier  up-and- 
down  motion,  pare  away  that  outward  bark  of  con 
versation  which  protects  the  core,  and  which,  like 
other  bark,  has  naturally  most  to  do  with  the  weather, 
the  season,  and  the  heat  of  the  day.  At  length  I  asked 
him  the  best  point  of  view  for  the  Old  Man  of  the 
Mountain. 


60  FIRESIDE    TRAVELS. 

"Dunno,  —  never  see  it." 

Too  young  and  too  happy  either  to  feel  or  affect  the 
Juvenalian  indifference,  I  was  sincerely  astonished, 
and  I  expressed  it. 

The  log-compelling  man  attempted  no  justifica 
tion,  but  after  a  little  asked,  "Come  from  Bawsn?" 

"Yes"  (with  peninsular  pride). 

"Goodie  to  see  in  the  vycinity  o'  Bawsn." 

"O  yes!"  I  said,  and  I  thought,  —  see  Boston 
and  die !  see  the  State-Houses,  old  and  new,  the  cat 
erpillar  wooden  bridges  crawling  with  innumerable 
legs  across  the  flats  of  Charles  ;  see  the  Common,  — 
largest  park,  doubtless,  in  the  world,  —  with  its  files 
of  trees  planted  as  if  by  a  drill-sergeant,  and  then  for 
your  nunc  dimittis ! 

"I  should  like,  'awl,  I  should  like  to  stan'  on  Bunker 
Hill.  You've  ben  there  offen,  likely?" 

"N — o — o,"  unwillingly,  seeing  the  little  end  of 
the  horn  in  clear  vision  at  the  terminus  of  this  Socratic 
perspective. 

"'Awl,  my  young  frien',  you  've  larned  neow  thet 
wut  a  man  kin  see  any  day  for  nawthin',  childern  half 
price,  he  never  doos  see.  Nawthin'  pay,  nawthin' 
vally." 

With  mis  modern  instance  of  a  wise  saw,  I  departed, 
deeply  revolving  these  things  with  myself,  and  con 
vinced  that,  whatever  the  ratio  of  population,  the 
average  amount  of  human  nature  to  the  square  mile 
is  the  same  the  world  over.  I  thought  of  it  when  I 
saw  people  upon  the  Pincian  wondering  at  the  Al 
chemist  sun,  as  if  he  never  burned  the  leaden  clouds 


A   MOOSEHEAD  JOURNAL.  6 1 

to  gold  in  sight  of  Charles  Street.  I  thought  of  it  when 
I  found  eyes  first  discovering  at  Mont  Blanc  how 
beautiful  snow  was.  As  I  walked  on,  I  said  to  myself, 
There  is  one  exception,  wise  hermit,  —  it  is  just  these 
gratis  pictures  which  the  poet  puts  in  his  show-box, 
and  which  we  all  gladly  pay  Wordsworth  and  the  rest 
for  a  peep  at.  The  divine  faculty  is  to  see  what  every 
body  can  look  at. 

While  every  well-informed  man  in  Europe,  from 
the  barber  down  to  the  diplomatist,  has  his  view  of 
the  Eastern  Question,  why  should  I  not  go  personally 
down  East  and  see  for  myself?  Why  not,  like  Tan- 
cred,  attempt  my  own  solution  of  the  mystery  of  the 
Orient,  —  doubly  mysterious  when  you  begin  the  two 
\words  with  capitals?  You  know  my  way  of  doing 
things,  to  let  them  simmer  in  my  mind  gently  for 
months,  and  at  last  do  them  impromptu  in  a  kind  of 
desperation,  driven  by  the  Eumenides  of  unfulfilled 
purpose.  So,  after  talking  about  Moosehead  till 
nobody  believed  me  capable  of  going  thither,  I  found 
myself  at  the  Eastern  Railway  station.  The  only 
event  of  the  journey  hither  (I  am  now  at  Waterville) 
was  a  boy  hawking  exhilaratingly  the  last  great  rail 
road  smash,  —  thirteen  lives  lost,  —  and  no  doubt 
devoutly  wishing  there  had  been  fifty.  This  having 
a  mercantile  interest  in  horrors,  holding  stock,  as  it 
were,  in  murder,  misfortune,  and  pestilence,  must 
have  an  odd  effect  on  the  human  mind.  The  birds  of 
ill-omen,  at  whose  sombre  flight  the  rest  of  the  world 
turn  pale,  are  the  ravens  which  bring  food  to  this 
little  outcast  in  the  wilderness.  If  this  lad  give 


62  FIRESIDE    TRAVELS. 

thanks  for  daily  bread,  it  would  be  curious  to  inquire 
what  that  phrase  represents  to  his  understanding.  If 
there  ever  be  a  plum  in  it,  it  is  Sin  or  Death  that  puts 
it  in.  Other  details  of  my  dreadful  ride  I  will  spare 
you.  Suffice  it  that  I  arrived  here  in  safety,  —  in 
complexion  like  an  Ethiopian  serenader  half  got-up, 
and  so  broiled  and  peppered  that  I  was  more  like  a 
devilled  kidney  than  anything  else  I  can  think  of. 

10  P.M.  —  The  civil  landlord  and  neat  chamber  at 
the  "Elmwood  House"  were  very  grateful,  and  after 
tea  I  set  forth  to  explore  the  town.  It  has  a  good 
chance  of  being  pretty  ;  but,  like  most  American 
towns,  it  is  in  a  hobbledehoy  age,  growing  yet,  and 
one  cannot  tell  what  may  happen.  A  child  with 
great  promise  of  beauty  is  often  spoiled  by  its  second 
teeth.  There  is  something  agreeable  in  the  sense  of 
completeness  which  a  walled  town  gives  one.  It  is 
entire,  like  a  crystal,  —  a  work  which  man  has  suc 
ceeded  in  finishing.  I  think  the  human  mind  pines 
more  or  less  where  everything  is  new,  and  is  better  for 
a  diet  of  stale  bread.  The  number  of  Americans  who 
visit  the  Old  World  is  beginning  to  afford  matter  of 
speculation  to  observant  Europeans,  and  the  deep 
inspirations  with  which  they  breathe  the  air  of  an 
tiquity,  as  if  their  mental  lungs  had  been  starved  with 
too  thin  an  atmosphere.  For  my  own  part,  I  never 
saw  a  house  which  I  thought  old  enough  to  be  torn 
down.  It  is  too  like  that  Scythian  fashion  of  knock 
ing  old  people  on  the  head.  I  cannot  help  thinking 
that  the  indefinable  something  which  we  call  char 
acter  is  cumulative,  —  that  the  influence  of  the  same 


A   MOOSEHEAD  JOURNAL.  63 

climate,  scenery,  and  associations  for  several  genera 
tions  is  necessary  to  its  gathering  head,  and  that  the 
process  is  disturbed  by  continual  change  of  place. 
The  American  is  nomadic  in  religion,  in  ideas,  in 
morals,  and  leaves  his  faith  and  opinions  with  as 
much  indifference  as  the  house  in  which  he  was  born. 
However,  we  need  not  bother:  Nature  takes  care 
not  to  leave  out  of  the  great  heart  of  society  either  of 
its  two  ventricles  of  hold-back  and  go-ahead. 

It  seems  as  if  every  considerable  American  town 
must  have  its  one  specimen  of  everything,  and  so  there 
is  a  college  in  Waterville,  the  buildings  of  which  are 
three  in  number,  of  brick,  and  quite  up  to  the  average 
ugliness  which  seems  essential  in  edifices  of  this  de 
scription.  Unhappily,  they  do  not  reach  that  extreme 
of  ugliness  where  it  and  beauty  come  together  in  the 
clasp  of  fascination.  We  erect  handsomer  factories, 
for  cottons,  woollens,  and  steam-engines,  than  for 
doctors,  lawyers,  and  parsons.  The  truth  is,  that, 
till  our  struggle  with  nature  is  over,  till  this  shaggy 
hemisphere  is  tamed  and  subjugated,  the  workshop 
will  be  the  college  whose  degrees  will  be  most  valued. 
Moreover,  steam  has  made  travel  so  easy  that  the 
great  university  of  the  world  is  open  to  all  comers,  and 
the  old  cloister  system  is  falling  astern.  Perhaps  it  is 
only  the  more  needed,  and,  were  I  rich,  I  should  like  to 
found  a  few  lazyships  in  my  Alma  Mater  as  a  kind  of 
counterpoise.  The  Anglo-Saxon  race  has  accepted 
the  primal  curse  as  a  blessing,  has  deified  work,  and 
would  not  have  thanked  Adam  for  abstaining  from 
the  apple.  They  would  have  dammed  the  four  rivers 


64  FIRESIDE    TRAVELS. 

of  Paradise,  substituted  cotton  for  fig-leaves  among 
the  antediluvian  populations,  and  commended  man's 
first  disobedience  as  a  wise  measure  of  political 
economy.  But  to  return  to  our  college.  We  cannot 
have  fine  buildings  till  we  are  less  in  a  hurry.  We 
snatch  an  education  like  a  meal  at  a  railroad-station. 
Just  in  time  to  make  us  dyspeptic,  the  whistle  shrieks, 
and  we  must  rush,  or  lose  our  places  in  the  great  train 
of  life.  Yet  noble  architecture  is  one  element  of 
patriotism,  and  an  eminent  one  of  culture,  the  finer 
portions  of  which  are  taken  in  by  unconscious  ab 
sorption  through  the  pores  of  the  mind  from  the 
surrounding  atmosphere.  I  suppose  we  must  wait, 
for  we  are  a  great  bivouac  as  yet  rather  than  a  nation, 
—  on  the  march  from  the  Atlantic  to  the  Pacific,  — 
and  pitch  tents  instead  of  building  houses.  Our 
very  villages  seem  to  be  in  motion,  following  west 
ward  the  bewitching  music  of  some  Pied  Piper  of 
Hamelin.  We  still  feel  the  great  push  toward  sun 
down  given  to  the  peoples  somewhere  in  the  gray 
dawn  of  history.  The  cliff-swallow  alone  of  all  ani 
mated  nature  emigrates  eastward. 

Friday,  nth.  —  The  coach  leaves  Waterville  at 
five  o'clock  in  the  morning,  and  one  must  breakfast 
in  the  dark  at  a  quarter  past  four,  because  a  train 
starts  at  twenty  minutes  before  five,  —  the  passengers 
by  both  conveyances  being  pastured  gregariously. 
So  one  must  be  up  at  half  past  three.  The  primary 
geological  formations  contain  no  trace  of  man,  and 
it  seems  to  me  that  these  eocene  periods  of  the  day 
are  not  fitted  for  sustaining  the  human  forms  of  life. 


A   MOOSEHEAD  JOURNAL.  6$ 

One  of  the  Fathers  held  that  the  sun  was  created  to  be 
worshipped  at  his  rising  by  the  Gentiles.  The  more 
reason  that  Christians  (except,  perhaps,  early  Chris 
tians)  should  abstain  from  these  heathenish  cere 
monials.  As  one  arriving  by  an  early  train  is  wel 
comed  by  a  drowsy  maid  with  the  sleep  scarce  brushed 
out  of  her  hair,  and  finds  empty  grates  and  polished 
mahogany,  on  whose  arid  plains  the  pioneers  of  break 
fast  have  not  yet  encamped,  so  a  person  waked  thus 
unseasonably  is  sent  into  the  world  before  his  faculties 
are  up  and  dressed  to  serve  him.  It  might  have  been 
for  this  reason  that  my  stomach  resented  for  several 
hours  a  piece  of  fried  beefsteak  which  I  forced  upon 
it,  or,  more  properly  speaking,  a  piece  of  that  leathern 
conveniency  which  in  these  regions  assumes  the  name. 
You  will  find  it  as  hard  to  believe,  my  dear  Storg,  as 
that  quarrel  of  the  Sorbonists,  whether  one  should 
say  ego  amat  or  no,  that  the  use  of  the  gridiron  is  un 
known  hereabout,  and  so  near  a  river  named  after 
St.  Lawrence,  too ! 

To-day  has  been  the  hottest  day  of  the  season,  yet 
our  drive  has  not  been  unpleasant.  For  a  consider 
able  distance  we  followed  the  course  of  the  Sebasti- 
cook  River,  a  pretty  stream  with  alternations  of  dark 
brown  pools  and  wine-colored  rapids.  On  each  side 
of  the  road  the  land  has  been  cleared,  and  little  one- 
story  farm-houses  were  scattered  at  intervals.  But 
the  stumps  still  held  out  in  most  of  the  fields,  and  the 
tangled  wilderness  closed  in  behind,  striped  here  and 
there  with  the  slim  white  trunks  of  the  elm.  As  yet 
only  the  edges  of  the  great  forest  have  been  nibbled 


66  FIRESIDE    TRAVELS. 

away.  Sometimes  a  root-fence  stretched  up  its 
bleaching  antlers,  like  the  trophies  of  a  giant  hunter. 
Now  and  then  the  houses  thickened  into  an  unsocial- 
looking  village,  and  we  drove  up  to  the  grocery  to 
leave  and  take  a  mail-bag,  stopping  again  presently 
to  water  the  horses  at  some  pallid  little  tavern,  whose 
one  red-curtained  eye  (the  bar-room)  had  been  put 
out  by  the  inexorable  thrust  of  Maine  Law.  Had 
Shenstone  travelled  this  road,  he  would  never  have 
written  that  famous  stanza  of  his;  had  Johnson,  he 
would  never  have  quoted  it.  They  are  to  real  inns 
as  the  skull  of  Yorick  to  his  face.  Where  these  vil 
lages  occurred  at  a  distance  from  the  river,  it  was 
difficult  to  account  for  them.  On  the  river-bank,  a 
saw-mill  or  a  tannery  served  as  a  logical  premise,  and 
saved  them  from  total  inconsequentiality.  As  we 
trailed  along,  at  the  rate  of  about  four  miles  an  hour, 
it  was  discovered  that  one  of  our  mail -bags  was  miss 
ing.  "Guess  somebody '11  pick  it  up,"  said  the 
driver  coolly;  "'t  any  rate,  likely  there's  nothin'  in 
it."  Who  knows  how  long  it  took  some  Elam  D. 
or  Zebulon  K.  to  compose  the  missive  intrusted  to 
that  vagrant  bag,  and  how  much  longer  to  persuade 
Pamela  Grace  or  Sophronia  Melissa  that  it  had  really 
and  truly  been  written?  The  discovery  of  our  loss 
was  made  by  at  all  man  who  sat  next  to  me  on  the  top 
of  the  coach,  every  one  of  whose  senses  seemed  to  be 
prosecuting  its  several  investigation  as  we  went  along. 
Presently,  sniffing  gently,  he  remarked:  "' Pears  to 
me  's  though  I  smelt  sunthin'.  Ain't  the  aix  het, 
think?"  The  driver  pulled  up,  and,  sure  enough. 


A   MOOSEHEAD  JOURNAL.  6? 

the  off  fore-wheel  was  found  to  be  smoking.  In  three 
minutes  he  had  snatched  a  rail  from  the  fence,  made 
a  lever,  raised  the  coach,  and  taken  off  the  wheel, 
bathing  the  hot  axle  and  box  with  water  from  the 
river.  It  was  a  pretty  spot,  and  I  was  not  sorry  to 
lie  under  a  beech-tree  (Tityrus-like,  meditating  over 
my  pipe)  and  watch  the  operations  of  the  fire-annihi- 
lator.  I  could  not  help  contrasting  the  ready  help 
fulness  of  our  driver,  all  of  whose  wits  were  about 
him,  current,  and  redeemable  in  the  specie  of  action 
on  emergency,  with  an  incident  of  travel  in  Italy, 
where,  under  a  somewhat  similar  stress  of  circum 
stances,  our  vetturino  had  nothing  for  it  but  to  dash 
his  hat  on  the  ground  and  call  on  Sant'  Antonio,  the 
Italian  Hercules. 

There  being  four  passengers  for  the  Lake,  a  vehicle 
called  a  mud-wagon  was  detailed  at  Newport  for  our 
accommodation.  In  this  we  jolted  and  rattled  along 
at  a  livelier  pace  than  in  the  coach.  As  we  got 
farther  north,  the  country  (especially  the  hills)  gave 
evidence  of  longer  cultivation.  About  the  thriving 
town  of  Dexter  we  saw  fine  farms  and  crops.  The 
houses,  too,  became  prettier;  hop-vines  were  trained 
about  the  doors,  and  hung  their  clustering  thyrsi 
over  the  open  windows.  A  kind  of  wild  rose  (called 
by  the  country  folk  the  primrose)  and  asters  were 
planted  about  the  door-yards,  and  orchards,  com 
monly  of  natural  fruit,  added  to  the  pleasant  home- 
look.  But  everywhere  we  could  see  that  the  war 
between  the  white  man  and  the  forest  was  still  fierce, 
and  that  it  would  be  a  long  while  yet  before  the  axe 


68  FIRESIDE    TRAVELS. 

was  buried.  The  haying  being  over,  fires  blazed  or 
smouldered  against  the  stumps  in  the  fields,  and  the 
blue  smoke  widened  slowly  upward  through  the  quiet 
August  atmosphere.  It  seemed  to  me  that  I  could 
hear  a  sigh  now  and  then  from  the  immemorial  pines, 
as  they  stood  watching  these  camp-fires  of  the  inex 
orable  invader.  Evening  set  in,  and,  as  we  crunched 
and  crawled  up  the  long  gravelly  hills,  I  sometimes 
began  to  fancy  that  Nature  had  forgotten  to  make  the 
corresponding  descent  on  the  other  side.  But  ere 
long  we  were  rushing  down  at  full  speed;  and,  in 
spired  by  the  dactylic  beat  of  the  horses'  hoofs,  I 
essayed  to  repeat  the  opening  lines  of  Evangeline. 
At  the  moment  I  was  beginning,  we  plunged  into  a 
hollow,  where  the  soft  clay  had  been  overcome  by  a 
road  of  unhewn  logs.  I  got  through  one  line  to  this 
corduroy  accompaniment,  somewhat  as  a  country 
choir  stretches  a  short  metre  on  the  Protestant  rock 
of  a  long-drawn  tune.  The  result  was  like  this:  — 

"  Thihis  ihis  thehe  fohorest   prihihimeheval ;    thehe  murhur- 
muring  pihines  hahand  thehe  hehemlohocks  !  " 

At  a  quarter  past  eleven,  P.M.,  we  reached  Greenville, 
(a  little  village  which  looks  as  if  it  had  dripped  down 
from  the  hills,  and  settled  in  the  hollow  at  the  foot  of 
the  lake,)  having  accomplished  seventy-two  miles  in 
eighteen  hours.  The  tavern  was  totally  extinguished. 
The  driver  rapped  upon  the  bar-room  window,  and 
after  a  while  we  saw  heat-lightnings  of  unsuccessful 
matches  followed  by  a  low  grumble  of  vocal  thunder, 
which  I  am  afraid  took  the  form  of  imprecation. 


A   MOOSEHEAD  JOURNAL.  69 

Presently  there  was  a  great  success,  and  the  steady 
blur  of  lighted  tallow  succeeded  the  fugitive  brilliance 
of  the  pine.  A  hostler  fumbled  the  door  open,  and 
stood  staring  at  but  not  seeing  us,  with  the  sleep 
sticking  out  all  over  him.  We  at  last  contrived  to 
launch  him,  more  like  an  insensible  missile  than  an 
intelligent  or  intelligible  being,  at  the  slumbering 
landlord,  who  came  out  wide-awake,  and  welcomed 
us  as  so  many  half-dollars,  —  twenty-five  cents  each 
for  bed,  ditto  breakfast.  O  Shenstone,  Shenstone ! 
The  only  roost  was  in  the  garret,  which  had  been  made 
into  a  single  room,  and  contained  eleven  double-beds, 
ranged  along  the  walls.  It  was  like  sleeping  in  a 
hospital.  However,  nice  customs  curtsy  to  eighteen- 
hour  rides,  and  we  slept. 

Saturday,  i^th.  —  This  morning  I  performed  my 
toilet  in  the  bar-room,  where  there  was  an  abundant 
supply  of  water,  and  a  halo  of  interested  spectators. 
After  a  sufficient  breakfast,  we  embarked  on  the  little 
steamer  Moosehead,  and  were  soon  throbbing  up 
the  lake.  The  boat,  it  appeared,  had  been  chartered 
by  a  party,  this  not  being  one  of  her  regular  trips. 
Accordingly  we  were  mulcted  in  twice  the  usual  fee, 
the  philosophy  of  which  I  could  not  understand. 
However,  it  always  comes  easier  to  us  to  comprehend 
why  we  receive  than  why  we  pay.  I  dare  say  it  was 
quite  clear  to  the  captain.  There  were  three  or  four 
clearings  on  the  western  shore;  but  after  passing 
these,  the  lake  became  wholly  primeval,  and  looked 
to  us  as  it  did  to  the  first  adventurous  Frenchman 
who  paddled  across  it.  Sometimes  a  cleared  point 


70  FIRESIDE    TRAVELS. 

would  be  pink  with  the  blossoming  willow-herb,  "a 
cheap  and  excellent  substitute"  for  heather,  and, 
like  all  such,  not  quite  so  good  as  the  real  thing.  On 
all  sides  rose  deep-blue  mountains,  of  remarkably 
graceful  outline,  and  more  fortunate  than  common 
in  their  names.  There  were  the  Big  and  Little  Squaw, 
the  Spencer  and  Lily-bay  Mountains.  It  was  de 
bated  whether  we  saw  Katahdin  or  not,  (perhaps 
more  useful  as  an  intellectual  exercise  than  the  assured 
vision  would  have  been,)  and  presently  Mount  Kineo 
rose  abruptly  before  us,  in  shape  not  unlike  the  island 
of  Capri.  Mountains  are  called  great  natural  fea 
tures,  and  why  they  should  not  retain  their  names  long 
enough  for  them  also  to  become  naturalized,  it  is  hard 
to  say.  Why  should  every  new  surveyor  rechristen 
them  with  the  gubernatorial  patronymics  of  the  cur 
rent  year?  They  are  geological  noses,  and,  as  they 
are  aquiline  or  pug,  indicate  terrestrial  idiosyncrasies. 
A  cosmical  physiognomist,  after  a  glance  at  them, 
will  draw  no  vague  inference  as  to  the  character  of  the 
country.  The  word  nose  is  no  better  than  any  other 
word;  but  since  the  organ  has  got  that  name,  it  is 
convenient  to  keep  it.  Suppose  we  had  to  label  our 
facial  prominences  every  season  with  the  name  of  our 
provincial  governor,  how  should  we  like  it?  If  the 
old  names  have  no  other  meaning,  they  have  that  of 
age ;  and,  after  all,  meaning  is  a  plant  of  slow  growth, 
as  every  reader  of  Shakespeare  knows.  It  is  well 
enough  to  call  mountains  after  their  discoverers,  for 
Nature  has  a  knack  of  throwing  doublets,  and  some 
how  contrives  it  that  discoverers  have  good  names. 


A   MOOSEHEAD  JOURNAL.  71 

Pike's  Peak  is  a  curious  hit  in  this  way.  But  these 
surveyors'  names  have  no  natural  stick  in  them.  They 
remind  one  of  the  epithets  of  poetasters,  which  peel 
off  like  a  badly  gummed  postage-stamp.  The  early 
settlers  did  better,  and  there  is  something  pleasant  in 
the  sound  of  Graylock,  Saddleback,  and  Great  Hay 
stack. 

"  I  love  those  names 
Wherewith  the  exiled  farmer  tames 
Nature  down  to  companionship 

With  his  old  world's  more  homely  mood, 
And  strives  the  shaggy  wild  to  clip 

With  arms  of  familiar  habitude." 

It  is  possible  that  Mount  Marcy  and  Mount  Hitch 
cock  may  sound  as  well  hereafter  as  Hellespont  and 
Peloponnesus,  when  the  heroes,  their  namesakes, 
have  become  mythic  with  antiquity.  But  that  is  to 
look  forward  a  great  way.  I  am  no  fanatic  for  Indian 
nomenclature,  —  the  name  of  my  native  district 
having  been  Pigsgusset,  —  but  let  us  at  least  agree  on 
names  for  ten  years. 

There  were  a  couple  of  loggers  on  board,  in  red 
flannel  shirts,  and  with  rifles.  They  were  the  first  I 
had  seen,  and  I  was  interested  in  their  appearance. 
They  were  tall,  well-knit  men,  straight  as  Robin  Hood, 
and  with  a  quiet,  self-contained  look  that  pleased  me. 
I  fell  into  talk  with  one  of  them. 

"Is  there  a  good  market  for  the  farmers  here  in  the 
woods?"  I  asked. 

"None  better.  They  can  sell  what  they  raise  at 
their  doors,  and  for  the  best  of  prices.  The  lum 
berers  want  it  all,  and  more." 


72  FIRESIDE    TRAVELS. 

"It  must  be  a  lonely  life.  But  then  we  all  have  to 
pay  more  or  less  life  for  a  living." 

"Well,  it  is  lonesome.  Shouldn't  like  it.  After 
all,  the  best  crop  a  man  can  raise  is  a  good  crop  of 
society.  We  don't  live  none  too  long,  anyhow;  and 
without  society  a  fellow  could  n't  tell  more  'n  half  the 
time  whether  he  was  alive  or  not." 

This  speech  gave  me  a  glimpse  into  the  life  of  the 
lumberers'  camp.  It  was  plain  that  there  a  man 
would  soon  find  out  how  much  alive  he  was,  —  there 
he  could  learn  to  estimate  his  quality,  weighed  in  the 
nicest  self-adjusting  balance.  The  best  arm  at  the 
axe  or  the  paddle,  the  surest  eye  for  a  road  or  for 
the  weak  point  of  a  jam,  the  steadiest  foot  upon  the 
squirming  log,  the  most  persuasive  voice  to  the  tug 
ging  oxen,  —  all  these  things  are  rapidly  settled,  and 
so  an  aristocracy  is  evolved  from  this  democracy  of  the 
woods,  for  good  old  mother  Nature  speaks  Saxon  still, 
and  with  her  either  Canning  or  Kenning  means  King. 

A  string  of  five  loons  was  flying  back  and  forth  in 
long,  irregular  zigzags,  uttering  at  intervals  their  wild, 
tremulous  cry,  which  always  seems  far  away,  like  the 
last  faint  pulse  of  echo  dying  among  the  hills,  and 
which  is  one  of  those  few  sounds  that,  instead  of  dis 
turbing  the  solitude,  only  deepen  and  confirm  it.  On 
our  inland  ponds  they  are  usually  seen  in  pairs,  and  I 
asked  if  it  were  common  to  meet  five  together.  My 
question  was  answered  by  a  queer-looking  old  man, 
chiefly  remarkable  for  a  pair  of  enormous  cowhide 
boots,  over  which  large  blue  trousers  of  frocking 
strove  in  vain  to  crowd  themselves. 


A   MOOSE  HEAD  JOURNAL.  73 

"Wahl,  't  ain't  ushil,"  said  he,  "and  it's  called  a 
sign  o'  rain  comin',  that  is." 

"Do  you  think  it  will  rain?" 

With  the  caution  of  a  veteran  auspex,  he  evaded  a 
direct  reply.  "Wahl,  they  du  say  it 's  a  sign  o'  rain 
comin',"  said  he. 

I  discovered  afterward  that  my  interlocutor  was 
Uncle  Zeb.  Formerly,  every  New  England  town  had 
its  representative  uncle.  He  was  not  a  pawnbroker, 
but  some  elderly  man  who,  for  want  of  more  defined 
family  ties,  had  gradually  assumed  this  avuncular 
relation  to  the  community,  inhabiting  the  border 
land  between  respectability  and  the  almshouse,  with 
no  regular  calling,  but  working  at  haying,  wood- 
sawing,  whitewashing,  associated  with  the  demise  of 
pigs  and  the  ailments  of  cattle,  and  possessing  as  much 
patriotism  as  might  be  implied  in  a  devoted  attach 
ment  to  "New  England"  —  with  a  good  deal  of  sugar 
and  very  little  water  in  it.  Uncle  Zeb  was  a  good 
specimen  of  this  palaeozoic  class,  extinct  among  us 
for  the  most  part,  or  surviving,  like  the  Dodo,  in  the 
Botany  Bays  of  society.  He  was  ready  to  contribute 
(somewhat  muddily)  to  all  general  conversation;  but 
his  chief  topics  were  his  boots  and  the  'Roostick  war. 
Upon  the  lowlands  and  levels  of  ordinary  palaver  he 
would  make  rapid  and  unlooked-for  incursions;  but 
provision  failing,  he  would  retreat  to  these  two  fast 
nesses,  whence  it  was  impossible  to  dislodge  him,  and 
to  which  he  knew  innumerable  passes  and  short  cuts 
quite  beyond  the  conjecture  of  common  woodcraft. 
His  mind  opened  naturally  to  these  two  subjects,  like 


74  FIRESIDE    TRAVELS. 

a  book  to  some  favorite  passage.  As  the  ear  accus 
toms  itself  to  any  sound  recurring  regularly,  such  as 
the  ticking  of  a  clock,  and,  without  a  conscious  effort 
of  attention,  takes  no  impression  from  it  whatever, 
so  does  the  mind  find  a  natural  safeguard  against  this 
pendulum  species  of  discourse,  and  performs  its 
duties  in  the  parliament  by  an  unconscious  reflex 
action,  like  the  beating  of  the  heart  or  the  movement 
of  the  lungs.  If  talk  seemed  to  be  flagging,  our 
Uncle  would  put  the  heel  of  one  boot  upon  the  toe  of 
the  other,  to  bring  it  within  point-blank  range,  and 
say,  "Wahl,  I  stump  the  Devil  himself  to  make  that 
'ere  boot  hurt  my  foot,"  leaving  us  no  doubt  whether 
it  were  the  virtue  of  the  foot  or  its  case  which  set  at 
naught  the  wiles  of  the  adversary;  or,  looking  up 
suddenly,  he  would  exclaim,  "  Wahl,  we  eat  some  beans 
\  to  the  'Roostick  war,  I  tell  you!"  When  his  poor  old 
'clay  was  wet  with  gin,  his  thoughts  and  words  ac 
quired  a  rank  flavor  from  it,  as  from  too  strong  a 
fertilizer.  At  such  times,  too,  his  fancy  commonly 
reverted  to  a  prehistoric  period  of  his  life,  when  he 
singly  had  settled  all  the  surrounding  country,  sub 
dued  the  Injuns  and  other  wild  animals,  and  named 
all  the  towns. 

We  talked  of  the  winter-camps  and  the  life  there. 
"The  best  thing  is,"  said  our  Uncle,  "to  hear  a  long 
squeal  thru  the  snow.  Git  a  good,  cole,  frosty 
mornin',  in  Febuary  say,  an'  take  an'  hitch  the 
critters  on  to  a  log  that  '11  scale  seven  thousan',  an' 
it  '11  squeal  as  pooty  as  an'thin'  you  ever  hearn,  I  tell 
you" 


A   MOOSEHEAD  JOURNAL.  75 

A  pause. 

"Lessee,  —  seen  Cal  Hutchins  lately?" 

"No." 

"Seems  to  me  's  though  I  hed  n't  seen  Cal  sence  the 
'Roostick  war.  Wahl,"  etc.,  etc. 

Another  pause. 

"To  look  at  them  boots  you  'd  think  they  was  too 
large;  but  kind  o'  git  your  foot  into  'em,  and  they  're 
as  easy  's  a  glove."  (I  observed  that  he  never  seemed 
really  to  get  his  foot  in,  —  there  was  always  a  quali 
fying  kind  o\)  "Wahl,  my  foot  can  play  in  'em  like 
a  young  hedgehog." 

By  this  time  we  had  arrived  at  Kineo,  —  a  flourish 
ing  village  of  one  house,  the  tavern  kept  by  'Squire 
Barrows.  The  'Squire  is  a  large,  hearty  man,  with  a 
voice  as  clear  and  strong  as  a  northwest  wind  and  a 
great  laugh  suitable  to  it.  His  table  is  neat  and  well 
supplied,  and  he  waits  upon  it  himself  in  the  good  old 
landlordly  fashion.  One  may  be  much  better  off 
here,  to  my  thinking,  than  in  one  of  those  gigantic 
Columbaria  which  are  foisted  upon  us  patient  Ameri 
cans  for  hotels,  and  where  one  is  packed  away  in  a 
pigeon-hole  so  near  the  heavens  that,  if  the  comet 
should  flirt  its  tail  (no  unlikely  thing  in  the  month  of 
flies),  one  would  be  in  danger  of  being  brushed  away. 
Here  one  does  not  pay  his  diurnal  three  dollars  for  an 
undivided  five-hundredth  part  of  the  pleasure  of 
looking  at  gilt  gingerbread.  Here  one's  relations  are 
with  the  monarch  himself,  and  one  is  not  obliged  to 
wait  the  slow  leisure  of  those  "attentive  clerks"  whose 
praises  are  sung  by  thankful  deadheads,  and  to  whom 


76  FIRESIDE    TRAVELS. 

the  slave  who  pays  may  feel  as  much  gratitude  as 
might  thrill  the  heart  of  a  brown-paper  parcel  toward 
the  express-man  who  labels  it  and  chucks  it  under  his 
counter. 

Sunday,  i^th.  —  The  loons  were  right.  About 
midnight  it  began  to  rain  in  earnest,  and  did  not  hold 
up  till  about  ten  o'clock  this  morning.  "This  is  a 
Maine  dew,"  said  a  shaggy  woodman  cheerily,  as  he 
shook  the  water  out  of  his  wide-awake,  "if  it  don't 
look  out  sharp,  it  '11  begin  to  rain  afore  it  thinks  on  't." 
The  day  was  mostly  spent  within  doors;  but  I  found 
good  and  intelligent  society.  We  should  have  to  be 
shipwrecked  on  JuarL-Eernandez  not  to  find  men  who 
knew  more  than  we.  In  these  travelling  encounters 
one  is  thrown  upon  his  own  resources,  and  is  worth 
\  just  what  he  carries  about  him.  The  social  currency 
'of  home,  the  smooth-worn  coin  which  passes  freely 
among  friends  and  neighbors,  is  of  no  account.  We 
are  thrown  back  upon  the  old  system  of  barter;  and, 
even  with  savages,  we  bring  away  only  as  much  of  the 
wild  wealth  of  the  woods  as  we  carry  beads  of  thought 
and  experience,  strung  one  by  one  in  painful  years, 
to  pay  for  them  with.  A  useful  old  jackknife  will  buy 
more  than  the  daintiest  Louis  Quinze  paper-folder 
fresh  from  Paris.  Perhaps  the  kind  of  intelligence 
one  gets  in  these  out-of-the-way  places  is  the  best,  — 
where  one  takes  a  fresh  man  after  breakfast  instead 
of  the  damp  morning  paper,  and  where  the  magnetic 
telegraph  of  human  sympathy  flashes  swift  news  from 
brain  to  brain. 

Meanwhile,  at  a  pinch,  to-morrow's  weather  can  be 


A   MOOSEHEAD  JOURNAL.  JJ 

discussed.  The  augury  from  the  flight  of  birds  is 
favorable,  —  the  loons  no  longer  prophesying  rain. 
The  wind  also  is  hauling  round  to  the  right  quarter, 
j  according  to  some,  to  the  wrong,  if  we  are  to  believe 
\  others.  Each  man  has  his  private  barometer  of  hope, 
i  the  mercury  in  which  is  more  or  less  sensitive,  and 
^  the  opinion  vibrant  with  its  rise  or  fall.  Mine  has  an 
index  which  can  be  moved  mechanically.  I  fixed  it 
at  set  fair,  and  resigned  myself.  I  read  an  old  volume 
of  the  Patent-Office  Report  on  Agriculture,  and 
stored  away  a  beautiful  pile  of  facts  and  observations 
for  future  use,  which  the  current  of  occupation,  at  its 
first  freshet,  would  sweep  quietly  off  to  blank  oblivion. 
Practical  application  is  the  only  mordant  which  will 
set  things  in  the  memory.  Study,  without  it,  is  gym 
nastics,  and  not  work,  which  alone  will  get  intellectual 
bread.  One  learns  more  metaphysics  from  a  single 
temptation  than  from  all  the  philosophers.  It  is  curious, 
though,  how  tyrannical  the  habit  of  reading  is,  and 
what  shifts  we  make  to  escape  thinking.  There  is  no 
bore  we  dread  being  left  alone  with  so  much  as  our 
own  minds.  I  have  seen  a  sensible  man  study  a  stale 
newspaper  in  a  country  tavern,  and  husband  it  as  he 
would  an  old  shoe  on  a  raft  after  shipwreck.  Why 
not  try  a  bit  of  hibernation?  There  are  few  brains 
that  would  not  be  better  for  living  on  their  own  fat  a 
little  while.  With  these  reflections,  I,  notwithstand 
ing,  spent  the  afternoon  over  my  Report.  If  our  own 
experience  is  of  so  little  use  to  us,  what  a  dolt  is  he  who 
recommends  to  man  or  nation  the  experience  of  others  ! 
Like  the  mantle  in  the  old  ballad,  it  is  always  too 


78  FIRESIDE    TRAVELS. 

short  or  too  long,  and  exposes  or  trips  us  up.  "Keep 
out  of  that  candle,"  says  old  Father  Miller,  "or  you  '11 
get  a  singeing."  "Pooh,  pooh,  father,  I've  been 
dipped  in  the  new  asbestos  preparation,"  and  jrozz! 
it  is  all  over  with  young  Hopeful.  How  many  warn 
ings  have  been  drawn  from  Pretorian  bands,  and 
Janizaries,  and  Mamelukes,  to  make  Napoleon  III. 
impossible  in  1851 !  I  found  myself  thinking  the 
same  thoughts  over  again,  when  we  walked  later  on 
the  beach  and  picked  up  pebbles.  The  old  time- 
ocean  throws  upon  its  shores  just  such  rounded  and 
polished  results  of  the  eternal  turmoil,  but  we  only 
see  the  beauty  of  those  we  have  got  the  headache  in 
stooping  for  ourselves,  and  wonder  at  the  dull  brown 
bits  of  common  stone  with  which  our  comrades  have 
stuffed  their  pockets.  Afterwards  this  little  fable 
came  of  it. 

DOCTOR  LOBSTER. 

A  PERCH,  who  had  the  toothache,  once 
Thus  moaned,  like  any  human  dunce : 
"  Why  must  great  souls  exhaust  so  soon 
Life's  thin  and  unsubstantial  boon  ? 
Existence  on  such  sculpin  terms, — 
Their  vulgar  loves  and  hard-won  worms, — 
What  is  it  all  but  dross  to  me, 
Whose  nature  craves  a  larger  sea; 
Whose  inches,  six  from  head  to  tail, 
Enclose  the  spirit  of  a  whale ; 
Who,  if  great  baits  were  still  to  win, 
By  watchful  eye  and  fearless  fin 
Might  with  the  Zodiac's  awful  twain 
Room  for  a  third  immortal  gain? 
Better  the  crowd's  unthinking  plan, — 
The  hook,  the  jerk,  the  frying-pan  ! 
O  Death,  thou  ever  roaming  shark, 
Ingulf  me  in  eternal  dark  !  " 


A    MOOSEHEAD  JOURNAL.  79 


The  speech  was  cut  in  two  by  flight : 

A  real  shark  had  come  in  sight; 

No  metaphoric  monster,  one 

It  soothes  despair  to  call  upon, 

But  stealthy,  sidelong,  grim,  I  wis, 

A  bit  of  downright  Nemesis ; 

While  it  recovered  from  the  shock, 

Our  fish  took  shelter  'neath  a  rock : 

This  was  an  ancient  lobster's  house, 

A  lobster  of  prodigious  nous, 

So  old  that  barnacles  had  spread 

Their  white  encampments  o'er  its  head, — 

And  of  experience  so  stupend, 

His  claws  were  blunted  at  the  end, 

Turning  life's  iron  pages  o'er, 

That  shut  and  can  be  oped  no  more. 

Stretching  a  hospitable  claw, 

"  At  once,"  said  he,  "  the  point  I  saw; 

My  dear  young  friend,  your  case  I  rue, 

Your  great-great-grandfather  I  knew; 

He  was  a  tried  and  tender  friend 

I  know,  —  I  ate  him  in  the  end  : 

In  this  vile  sea  a  pilgrim  long, 

Still  my  sight's  good,  my  memory  strong; 

The  only  sign  that  age  is  near 

Is  a  slight  deafness  in  this  ear ; 

I  understand  your  case  as  well 

As  this  my  old  familiar  shell ; 

This  sorrow  's  a  new-fangled  notion, 

Come  in  since  first  I  knew  the  ocean; 

We  had  no  radicals,  nor  crimes, 

Nor  lobster-pots,  in  good  old  times; 

Your  traps  and  nets  and  hooks  we  owe 

To  Mr ssieurs  Louis  Blanc  and  Co. ; 

I  say  to  all  my  sons  and  daughters, 

Shun  Red  Republican  hot  waters; 

No  lobster  ever  cast  his  lot 

Among  the  reds,  but  went  to  pot : 

Your  trouble  's  in  the  jaw.  you  said  ? 

Come,  let  me  just  nip  off  your  head, 

And,  when  a  new  one  comes,  the  pain 

Will  never  trouble  you  again  : 

Nay,  nay,  fear  naught :  't  is  nature's  law. 

Four  times  I  Ve  lost  this  starboard  claw; 

And  still,  erelong,  another  grew, 

Good  as  the  old,  —  and  better  too  !  " 


80  FIRESIDE    TRAVELS. 


The  perch  consented,  and  next  day 
An  osprey,  marketing  that  way, 
Picked  up  a  fish  without  a  head, 
Floating  with  belly  up,  stone  dead. 


Sharp  are  the  teeth  of  ancient  saws, 
And  sauce  for  goose  is  gander's  sauce; 
But  perch's  heads  are  n't  lobster's  claws. 

Monday,  i^th.  —  The  morning  was  fine,  and  we 
were  called  at  four  o'clock.  At  the  moment  my  door 
was  knocked  at,  I  was  mounting  a  giraffe  with  that 
charming  nil  admirari  which  characterizes  dreams,  to 
visit  Prester  John.  Rat-tat-tat-tat !  upon  my  door 
and  upon  the  horn  gate  of  dreams  also.  I  remarked 
to  my  skowhegan  (the  Tatar  for  giraffe -driver)  that 
I  was  quite  sure  the  animal  had  the  raps,  a  com 
mon  disease  among  them,  for  I  heard  a  queer  knock 
ing  noise  inside  him.  It  is  the  sound  of  his  joints,  O 
Tambourgi !  (an  Oriental  term  of  reverence,)  and 
proves  him  to  be  of  the  race  of  El  Keirat.  Rat-tat- 
tat-too!  and  I  lost  my  dinner  at  the  Prester's,  em 
barking  for  a  voyage  to  the  Northwest  Carry  instead. 
Never  use  the  word  canoe,  my  dear  Storg,  if  you  wish 
to  retain  your  self-respect.  Birch  is  the  term  among 
us  backwoodsmen.  I  never  knew  it  till  yesterday; 
but,  like  a  true  philosopher,  I  made  it  appear  as  if  I 
had  been  intimate  with  it  from  childhood.  The 
rapidity  with  which  the  human  mind  levels  itself  to 
the  standard  around  it  gives  us  the  most  pertinent 
warning  as  to  the  company  we  keep.  It  is  as  hard 
for  most  characters  to  stay  at  their  own  average  point 


A  MOOSEHEAD  JOURNAL.  8 1 

in  all  companies,  as  for  a  thermometer  to  say  65°  for 
twenty-four  hours  together.  I  like  this  in  our  friend 
Johannes  Taurus^  that  he  carries  everywhere  and 
maintains  his  insular  temperature,  and  will  have 
everything  accommodate  itself  to  that.  Shall  I  con 
fess  that  this  morning  I  would  rather  have  broken  the 
moral  law,  than  have  endangered  the  equipoise  of  the 
birch  by  my  awkwardness?  that  I  should  have  been 
prouder  of  a  compliment  to  my  paddling,  than  to 
have  had  both  my  guides  suppose  me  the  author  of 
Hamlet?  Well,  Cardinal  Richelieu  used  to  jump 
over  chairs. 

We  were  to  paddle  about  twenty  miles;  but  we 
made  it  rather  more  by  crossing  and  recrossing  the 
lake.  Twice  we  landed,  —  once  at  a  camp,  where  we 
found  the  cook  alone,  baking  bread  and  gingerbread. 
Monsieur  Soyer  would  have  been  startled  a  little 
by  this  shaggy  professor,  —  this  Pre-Raphaelite  of 
cookery.  He  represented  the  salaratus  period  of  the 
art,  and  his  bread  was  of  a  brilliant  yellow,  like  those 
cakes  tinged  with  saffron,  which  hold  out  so  long 
against  time  and  the  flies  in  little  water-side  shops  of 
seaport  towns,  —  dingy  extremities  of  trade  fit  to 
moulder  on  Lethe  wharf.  His  water  was  better, 
squeezed  out  of  ice-cold  granite  in  the  neighboring 
mountains,  and  sent  through  subterranean  ducts  to 
sparkle  up  by  the  door  of  the  camp. 

"There  's  nothin'  so  sweet  an'  hulsome  as  your  real 
spring  water,"  said  Uncle  Zeb,  "git  it  pure.  But  it 's 
dreffle  hard  to  git  it  that  ain't  got  sunthin'  the  matter 
of  it.  Snow-water  '11  burn  a  man's  inside  out,  —  I 


82  FIRESIDE    TRA  VELS. 

larned  that  to  the  'Roostick  war,  —  and  the  snow 
lays  terrible  long  on  some  o'  thes'ere  hills.  Me  an' 
Eb  Stiles  was  up  old  Ktah'dn  once  jest  about  this  time 
o'  year,  an'  we  come  acrost  a  kind  o'  holler  like, 
as  full  o'  snow  as  your  stockin  's  full  o'  your 
foot.  /  see  it  fust,  an'  took  an'  rammed  a  settin'- 
pole ;  wahl,  it.  was  all  o'  twenty  foot  into  't,  an' 
could  n't  fin'  no  bottom.  I  dunno  as  there  's  snow 
water  enough  in  this  to  do  no  hurt.  I  don't  somehow 
seem  to  think  that  real  spring  water  's  so  plenty  as  it 
used  to  be."  And  Uncle  Zeb,  with  perhaps  a  little 
over-refinement  of  scrupulosity,  applied  his  lips  to  the 
Ethiop  ones  of  a  bottle  of  raw  gin,  with  a  kiss  that 
drew  out  its  very  soul,  —  a  basia  that  Secundus  might 
have  sung.  He  must  have  been  a  wonderful  judge 
of  water,  for  he  analyzed  this,  and  detected  its  latent 
snow  simply  by  his  eye,  and  without  the  clumsy 
process  of  tasting.  I  could  not  help  thinking  that 
he  had  made  the  desert  his  dwelling-place  chiefly 
in  order  to  enjoy  the  ministrations  of  this  one  fair 
spirit  unmolested. 

We  pushed  on.  Little  islands  loomed  trembling 
between  sky  and  water,  like  hanging  gardens.  Grad 
ually  the  filmy  trees  defined  themselves,  the  aerial 
enchantment  lost  its  potency,  and  we  came  up  with 
common  prose  islands  that  had  so  late  been  magical 
and  poetic.  The  old  story  of  the  attained  and  un- 
attained.  About  noon  we  reached  the  head  of  the 
lake,  and  took  possession  of  a  deserted  wongen,  in 
which  to  cook  and  eat  our  dinner.  No  Jew,  I  am 
sure,  can  have  a  more  thorough  dislike  of  salt  pork 


A   MOOSEHEAD  JOURNAL.  83 

than  I  have  in  a  normal  state,  yet  I  had  already  eaten 
it  raw  with  hard  bread  for  lunch,  and  relished  it 
keenly.  We  soon  had  our  tea-kettle  over  the  fire, 
and  before  long  the  cover  was  chattering  with  the  es 
caping  steam,  which  had  thus  vainly  begged  of  all 
men  to  be  saddled  and  bridled,  till  James  Watt  one 
day  happened  to  overhear  it.  One  of  our  guides  shot 
three  Canada  grouse,  and  these  were  turned  slowly 
between  the  fire  and  a  bit  of  salt  pork,  which  dropped 
fatness  upon  them  as  it  fried.  Although  my  fingers 
were  certainly  not  made  before  knives  and  forks,  yet 
they  served  as  a  convenient  substitute  for  those  more 
ancient  inventions.  We  sat  round,  Turk-fashion,  and 
ate  thankfully,  while  a  party  of  aborigines  of  the  Mos 
quito  tribe,  who  had  camped  in  the  wongen  before 
we  arrived,  dined  upon  us.  I  do  not  know  what  the 
British  Protectorate  of  the  Mosquitoes  amounts  to; 
but,  as  I  squatted  there  at  the  mercy  of  these  blood 
thirsty  savages,  I  no  longer  wondered  that  the  classic 
Everett  had  been  stung  into  a  willingness  for  war  on 
the  question. 

"This  'ere  'd  be  about  a  complete  place  for  a  camp, 
ef  there  was  on'y  a  spring  o'  sweet  water  handy. 
Frizzled  pork  goes  wal,  don't  it?  Yes,  an'  sets  wal, 
too,"  said  Uncle  Zeb,  and  he  again  tilted  his  bottle, 
which  rose  nearer  and  nearer  to  an  angle  of  forty -five 
at  every  gurgle.  He  then  broached  a  curious  dietetic 
theory:  "The  reason  we  take  salt  pork  along  is  cos 
it  packs  handy:  you  git  the  greatest  amount  o'  board 
in  the  smallest  compass,  —  let  alone  that  it 's  more 
nourishin'  than  an'thin'  else.  It  kind  o'  don't  disgest 


84  FIRESIDE    TRAVELS. 

so  quick,   but  stays  by  ye,   anourishin'    ye   all    the 
while. 

"A  feller  can  live  wal  on  frizzled  pork  an'  good 
spring- water,  git  it  good.  To  the  'Roostick  war  we 
did  n't  ask  for  nothin'  better,  —  on'y  beans."  (Tilt, 
tilt,  gurgle,  gurgle.)  Then,  with  an  apparent  feeling 
of  inconsistency,  "But  then,  come  to  git  used  to  a  par 
ticular  kind  o'  spring-water,  an'  it  makes  a  feller  hard 
to  suit.  Most  all  sorts  o'  water  taste  kind  o'  insipid 
away  from  home.  Now,  I  've  gut  a  spring  to  my 
place  that 's  as  sweet  —  wahl,  it 's  as  sweet  as  maple 
sap.  A  feller  acts  about  water  jest  as  he  does  about 
a  pair  o'  boots.  It 's  all  on  it  in  gittin'  wonted.  Now, 
them  boots,"  etc.,  etc.  (Gurgle,  gurgle,  gurgle, 
smack  /) 

All  this  while  he  was  packing  away  the  remains  of 
the  pork  and  hard  bread  in  two  large  firkins.  This 
accomplished,  we  reembarked,  our  uncle  on  his  way 
to  the  birch  essaying  a  kind  of  song  in  four  or  five 
parts,  of  which  the  words  were  hilarious  and  the  tune 
profoundly  melancholy,  and  which  was  finished,  and 
the  rest  of  his  voice  apparently  jerked  out  of  him  in 
one  sharp  falsetto  note,  by  his  tripping  over  the  root 
of  a  tree.  We  paddled  a  short  distance  up  a  brook 
which  came  into  the  lake  smoothly  through  a  little 
meadow  not  far  off.  We  soon  reached  the  Northwest 
Carry,  and  our  guide,  pointing  through  the  woods, 
said :  ' '  That 's  the  Cannydy  road.  You  can  travel  that 
clearn  to  Kebeck,  a  hunderd  an'  twenty  mile,"  - 
a  privilege  of  which  I  respectfully  declined  to  avail 
myself.  The  offer,  however,  remains  open  to  the 


A   MOOSEHEAD  JOURNAL.  8$ 

public.  The  Carry  is  called  two  miles;  but  this  is 
the  estimate  of  somebody  who  had  nothing  to  lug.  I 
had  a  headache  and  all  my  baggage,  which,  with  a 
traveller's  instinct,  I  had  brought  with  me.  (P.  S.  — 
I  did  not  even  take  the  keys  out  of  my  pocket,  and 
both  my  bags  were  wet  through  before  I  came  back. 
My  estimate  of  the  distance  is  eighteen  thousand  six 
hundred  and  seventy-four  miles  and  three  quarters,  •- 
the  fraction  being  the  part  left  to  be  travelled  after 
one  of  my  companions  most  kindly  insisted  on  re 
lieving  me  of  my  heaviest  bag.  I  know  very  well  that 
the  ancient  Roman  soldiers  used  to  carry  sixty  pounds' 
weight,  and  all  that;  but  I  am  not,  and  never  shall  be, 
an  ancient  Roman  soldier,  —  no,  not  even  in  the 
miraculous  Thundering  Legion.  Uncle  -  Zeb  slung 
the  two  provender  firkins  across  his  shoulder,  and 
trudged  along,  grumbling  that  "he  never  see  sech  a 
contrairy  pair  as  them."  He  had  begun  upon  a  sec 
ond  bottle  of  his  "particular  kind  o'  spring-water," 
and,  at  every  rest,  the  gurgle  of  this  peripatetic  foun 
tain  might  be  heard,  followed  by  a  smack,  a  frag 
ment  of  mosaic  song,  or  a  confused  clatter  with  the 
cowhide  boots,  being  an  arbitrary  symbol,  intended 
to  represent  the  festive  dance.  Christian's  pack  gave 
him  not  half  so  much  trouble  as  the  firkins  gave  Uncle 
Zeb.  It  grew  harder  and  harder  to  sling  them,  and 
with  every  fresh  gulp  of  the  Batavian  elixir,  they  got 
heavier.  Or  rather,  the  truth  was,  that  his  hat  grew 
heavier,  in  which  he  was  carrying  on  an  extensive 
manufacture  of  bricks  without  straw.  At  last  affairs 
reached  a  crisis,  and  a  particularly  favorable  pitch 


86  FIRESIDE    TRAVELS. 

offering,  with  a  puddle  at  the  foot  of  it,  even  ike  boots 
afforded  no  sufficient  ballast,  and  away  went  our  uncle, 
the  satellite  firkins  accompanying  faithfully  his  head 
long  flight.  Did  ever  exiled  monarch  or  disgr  ced 
minister  find  the  cause  of  his  fall  in  himself  ?  Is  there 
not  always  a  strawberry  at  the  bottom  of  our  cup  of 
life,  on  which  we  can  lay  all  the  blame  of  our  devia 
tions  from  the  straight  path?  Till  now  Uncle  Zeb 
had  contrived  to  give  a  gloss  of  volition  to  smaller 
stumblings  and  gyrations,  by  exaggerating  them  into 
an  appearance  of  playful  burlesque.  But  the  present 
case  was  beyond  any  such  subterfuges.  He  held  a 
bed  of  justice  where  he  sat,  and  then  arose  slowly,  with 
a  stern  determination  of  vengeance  stiffening  every 
muscle  of  his  face.  But  what  would  he  select  as  the 
culprit?  "It's  that  cussed  firkin,"  he  mumbled  to 
himself.  "I  never  knowed  a  firkin  cair  on  so,  —  no, 
not  in  the  'Roostehicick  war.  There,  go  long,  will 
ye  ?  and  don't  come  back  till  you  've  larned  how  to 
walk  with  a  genelman!"  And,  seizing  the  unhappy 
scapegoat  by  the  bail,  he  hurled  it  into  the  forest.  It 
is  a  curious  circumstance,  that  it  was  not  the  firkin 
containing  the  bottle  which  was  thus  condemned  to 
exile. 

The  end  of  the  Carry  was  reached  at  last,  and,  as 
we  drew  near  it,  we  heard  a  sound  of  shouting  and 
laughter.  It  came  from  a  party  of  men  making  hay 
of  the  wild  grass  in  Seboomok  meadows,  which  lie 
around  Seboomok  pond,  into  which  the  Carry  empties 
itself.  Their  camp  was  near,  and  our  two  hunters  set 
out  for  it,  leaving  us  seated  in  the  birch  on  the  plashy 


A   MOOSEHEAD  JOURNAL.  87 

border  of  the  pond.  The  repose  was  perfect.  An 
other  heaven  hallowed  and  deepened  the  polished 
lake,  and  through  that  nether  world  the  fish-hawk's 
double  floated  with  balanced  wings,  or,  wheeling 
suddenly,  flashed  his  whitened  breast  against  the  sun. 
As  the  clattering  kingfisher  flew  unsteadily  across, 
and  seemed  to  push  his  heavy  head  along  with  ever- 
renewing  effort,  a  visionary  mate  flitted  from  down 
ward  tree  to  tree  below.  Some  tall  alders  shaded  us 
from  the  sun,  in  whose  yellow  afternoon  light  the 
drowsy  forest  was  steeped,  giving  out  that  wholesome 
resinous  perfume,  almost  the  only  warm  odor  which 
it  is  refreshing  to  breathe.  The  tame  hay-cocks  in 
the  midst  of  the  wildness  gave  one  a  pleasant  remi 
niscence  of  home,  like  hearing  one's  native  tongue  in  a 
strange  country. 

Presently  our  hunters  came  back,  bringing  with 
them  a  tall,  thin,  active-looking  man,  with  black  eyes, 
that  glanced  unconsciously  on  all  sides,  like  one  of 
those  spots  of  sunlight  which  a  child  dances  up  and 
down  the  street  with  a  bit  of  looking-glass.  This  was 
M.,  the  captain  of  the  hay-makers,  a  famous  river- 
driver,  and  who  was  to  have  fifty  men  under  him  next 
winter.  I  could  now  understand  that  sleepless  vigi 
lance  of  eye.  He  had  consented  to  take  two  of  our 
party  in  his  birch  to  search  for  moose.  A  quick, 
nervous,  decided  man,  he  got  them  into  the  birch,  and 
was  off  instantly,  without  a  superfluous  word.  He 
evidently  looked  upon  them  as  he  would  upon  a 
couple  of  logs  which  he  was  to  deliver  at  a  certain 
place.  Indeed,  I  doubt  if  life  and  the  world  pre- 


88  FIRESIDE    TRAVELS. 

sented  themselves  to  Napier  himself  in  a  more  loga 
rithmic  way.  His  only  thought  was  to  do  the  imme- 
jdiate  duty  well,  and  to  pilot  his  particular  raft  down 
;he  crooked  stream  of  life  to  the  ocean  beyond.  The 
birch  seemed  to  feel  him  as  an  inspiring  soul,  and 
slid  away  straight  and  swift  for  the  outiet  of  the 
pond.  As  he  disappeared  under  the  over-arching 
alders  of  the  brook,  our  two  hunters  could  not  repress 
a  grave  and  measured  applause.  There  is  never  any 
extravagance  among  these  woodmen;  their  eye,  ac 
customed  to  reckoning  the  number  of  feet  which  a 
tree  will  scale,  is  rapid  and  close  in  its  guess  of  the 
amount  of  stuff  in  a  man.  It  was  laudari  a  laudato, 
however,  for  they  themselves  were  accounted  good 
men  in  a  birch.  I  was  amused,  in  talking  with  them 
about  him,  to  meet  with  an  instance  of  that  tendency 
of  the  human  mind  to  assign  some  utterly  improbable 
reason  for  gifts  which  seem  unaccountable.  After 
due  praise,  one  of  them  said,  "I  guess  he  's  got  some 
Injun  in  him,"  although  I  knew  very  well  that  the 
speaker  had  a  thorough  contempt  for  the  red-man, 
mentally  and  physically.  Here  was  mythology  in  a 
small  way,  —  the  same  that  under  more  favorable 
auspices  hatched  Helen  out  of  an  egg  and  gave  Merlin 
an  Incubus  for  a  father.  I  was  pleased  with  all  I  saw 
of  M.  He  was  in  his  narrow  sphere  a  true  ara£  avfy>cov, 
and  the  ragged  edges  of  his  old  hat  seemed  to  become 
coronated  as  I  looked  at  him.  He  impressed  me 
as  a  man  really  educated,  —  that  is,  with  his  aptitudes 
drawn  out  and  ready  for  use.  He  was  A.  M.  and 
LL.  D.  in  Woods  College,  —  Axe  Master  and  Doc- 


A   MOOSEHEAD  JOURNAL.  89 

tor  of  Logs.  Are  not  our  educations  commonly  like 
a  pile  of  books  laid  over  a  plant  in  a  pot  ?  The  com 
pressed  nature  struggles  through  at  every  crevice,  but 
can  never  get  the  cramp  and  stunt  out  of  it.  We 
spend  all  our  youth  in  building  a  vessel  for  our  voy 
age  of  life,  and  set  forth  with  streamers  flying;  but 
the  moment  we  come  nigh  the  great  loadstone  moun 
tain  of  our  proper  destiny,  out  leap  all  our  carefully 
driven  bolts  and  nails,  and  we  get  many  a  mouthful 
of  good  salt  brine,  and  many  a  buffet  of  the  rough 
water  of  experience,  before  we  secure  the  bare  right 
to  live. 

We  now  entered  the  outlet,  a  long-drawn  aisle  of 
alder,  on  each  side  of  which  spired  tall  firs,  spruces, 
and  white  cedars.  The  motion  of  the  birch  reminded 
me  of  the-  gondola,  and  they  represent  among  the 
water-craft  the  jelida,  the  cat  tribe,  stealthy,  silent, 
treacherous,  and  preying  by  night.  I  closed  my  eyes 
and  strove  to  fancy  myself  in  the  dumb  city,  whose 
only  horses  are  the  bronze  ones  of  St.  Mark.  But 
Nature  would  allow  no  rival,  and  bent  down  an  alder 
bough  to  brush  my  cheek  and  recall  me.  Only  the 
1  robin  sings  in  the  emerald  chambers  of  these  tall  sylvan 
\palaces,  and  the  squirrel  leaps  from  hanging  balcony 
jto  balcony. 

The  rain  which  the  loons  foreboded  had  raised  the 
west  branch  of  the  Penobscot  so  much,  that  a  strong 
current  was  setting  back  into  the  pond ;  and,  when  at 
last  we  brushed  through  into  the  river,  it  was  full  to 
the  brim,  —  too  full  for  moose,  the  hunters  said. 
Rivers  with  low  banks  have  always  the  compensation 


9O  FIRESIDE    TRAVELS. 

of  giving  a  sense  of  entire  fulness.  The  sun  sank 
behind  its  horizon  of  pines,  whose  pointed  summits 
notched  the  rosy  west  in  an  endless  black  sierra.  At 
the  same  moment  the  golden  moon  swung  slowly  up 
in  the  east,  like  the  other  scale  of  that  Homeric  baL- 
ance  in  which  Zeus  weighed  the  deeds  of  men.  Sun 
set  and  moonrise  at  once !  Adam  had  no  more  in 
Eden  —  except  the  head  of  Eve  upon  his  shoulder. 
The  stream  was  so  smooth,  that  the  floating  logs  we 
met  seemed  to  hang  in  a  glowing  atmosphere,  the 
shadow-half  being  as  real  as  the  solid.  And  gradu 
ally  the  mind  was  etherized  to  a  like  dreamy  placidity, 
till  fact  and  fancy,  the  substance  and  the  image,  float 
ing  on  the  current  of  reverie,  became  but  as  the  upper 
and  under  halves  of  one  unreal  reality. 

In  the  west  still  lingered  a  pale-green  light.  I  do 
not  know  whether  it  be  from  greater  familiarity,  but 
it  always  seems  to  me  that  the  pinnacles  of  pine-trees 
make  an  edge  to  the  landscape  which  tells  better 
against  the  twilight,  or  the  fainter  dawn  before  the 
rising  moon,  than  the  rounded  and  cloud-cumulus 
outline  of  hard-wood  trees. 

After  paddling  a  couple  of  miles,  we  found  the 
arbored  mouth  of  the  little  Malahoodus  River,  famous 
for  moose.  We  had  been  on  the  look-out  for  it,  and 
I  was  amused  to  hear  one  of  the  hunters  say  to  the 
other,  to  assure  himself  of  his  familiarity  with  the  spot, 
"You  drove  the  West  Branch  last  spring,  didn't 
you?"  as  one  of  us  might  ask  about  a  horse.  We  did 
not  explore  the  Malahoodus  far,  but  left  the  other 
birch  to  thread  its  cedared  solitudes,  while  we  turned 


A   MOOSEHEAD  JOURNAL.  91 

back  to  try  our  fortunes  in  the  larger  stream.  We 
paddled  on  about  four  miles  farther,  lingering  now 
and  then  opposite  the  black  mouth  of  a  moose-path. 
The  incidents  of  our  voyage  were  few,  but  quite  as 
exciting  and  provable  as  the  items  of  the  newspapers. 
A  stray  log  compensated  very  well  for  the  ordinary 
run  of  accidents,  and  the  floating  carkiss  of  a  moose 
which  we  met  could  pass  muster  instead  of  a  singular 
discovery  of  human  remains  by  workmen  in  digging  a 
cellar.  Once  or  twice  we  saw  what  seemed  ghosts 
of  trees;  but  they  turned  out  to  be  dead  cedars,  in 
winding-sheets  of  long  gray  moss,  made  spectral  by 
the  moonlight.  Just  as  we  were  turning  to  drift  back 
down-stream,  we  heard  a  loud  gnawing  sound  close 
by  us  on  the  bank.  One  of  our  guides  thought  it  a 
hedgehog,  the  other  a  bear.  I  inclined  to  the  bear,  as 
making  tne  adventure  more  imposing.  A  rifle  was 
fired  at  the  sound,  which  began  again  with  the  most 
provoking  indifference,  ere  the  echo,  flaring  madly  at 
first  from  shore  to  shore,  died  far  away  in  a  hoarse 
sigh. 

Half  past  Eleven,  P.M.  —  No  sign  of  a  moose  yet. 
The  birch,  it  seems,  was  strained  at  the  Carry,  or  the 
pitch  was  softened  as  she  lay  on  the  shore  during  dinner, 
and  she  leaks  a  little.  If  there  be  any  virtue  in  the 
sitzbad^  I  shall  discover  it.  If  I  cannot  extract  green 
cucumbers  from  the  moon's  rays,  I  get  something 
quite  as  cool.  One  of  the  guides  shivers  so  as  to 
shake  the  birch. 

Quarter  to  Twelve,  —  Later  from  the  Freshet !  — 
The  water  in  the  birch  is  about  three  inches  deep,  but 


92  FIRESIDE    TRAVELS. 

the  dampness  reaches  already  nearly  to  the  waist.  I  am 
obliged  to  remove  the  matches  from  the  ground  floor 
of  my  trousers  into  the  upper  story  of  a  breast-pocket. 
Meanwhile,  we  are  to  sit  immovable,  —  for  fear  of 
frightening  the  moose,  —  which  induces  cramps. 

Half  past  Twelve.  —  A  crashing  is  heard  on  the 
left  bank.  This  is  a  moose  in  good  earnest.  We  are 
besought  to  hold  our  breaths,  if  possible.  My  fingers 
so  numb,  I  could  not,  if  I  tried.  Crash!  crash! 
again,  and  then  a  plunge,  followed  by  dead  stillness. 
"Swimmin'  crik,"  whispers  guide,  suppressing  all 
unnecessary  parts  of  speech,  —  "don't  stir."  I,  for 
one,  am  not  likely  to.  A  cold  fog  which  has  been 
gathering  for  the  last  hour  has  finished  me.  I  fancy 
myself  one  of  those  naked  pigs  that  seem  rushing  out 
of  market-doors  in  winter,  frozen  in  a  ghastly  attitude 
of  gallop.  If  I  were  to  be  shot  myself,  I  should  feel 
no  interest  in  it.  As  it  is,  I  am  only  a  spectator,  having 
declined  a  gun.  Splash  !  again ;  this  time  the  moose 
is  in  sight,  and  click  !  click  !  one  rifle  misses  fire  after 
the  other.  The  fog  has  quietly  spiked  our  batteries. 
The  moose  goes  crashing  up  the  bank,  and  presently 
we  can  hear  it  chewing  its  cud  close  by.  So  we  lie  in 
wait,  freezing. 

At  one  o'clock,  I  propose  to  land  at  a  deserted 
wongen  I  had  noticed  on  the  way  up,  where  I  will 
make  a  fire,  and  leave  them  to  refrigerate  as  much 
longer  as  they  please.  Axe  in  hand,  I  go  plunging 
through  waist-deep  weeds  dripping  with  dew,  haunted 
by  an  intense  conviction  that  the  gnawing  sound  we 
had  heard  was  a  bear,  and  a  bear  at  least  eighteen 


A  MOOSEHEAD  JOURNAL.  93 

hands  high.  There  is  something  pokerish  about  a 
deserted  dwelling,  even  in  broad  daylight;  but  here 
in  the  obscure  wood,  and  the  moon  filtering  unwill 
ingly  through  the  trees!  Well,  I  made  the  door  at 
last,  and  found  the  place  packed  fuller  with  darkness 
than  it  ever  had  been  with  hay.  Gradually  I  was 
able  to  make  things  out  a  little,  and  began  to  hack 
frozenly  at  a  log  which  I  groped  out.  I  was  relieved 
presently  by  one  of  the  guides.  He  cut  at  once  into 
one  of  the  uprights  of  the  building  till  he  got  some  dry 
splinters,  and  we  soon  had  a  fire  like  the  burning  of  a 
whole  wood-wharf  in  our  part  of  the  country.  My 
companion  went  back  to  the  birch,  and  left  me  to 
keep  house.  First  I  knocked  a  hole  in  the  roof  (which 
the  fire  began  to  lick  in  a  relishing  way)  for  a  chimney, 
and  then  cleared  away  a  damp  growth  of  "pison- 
elder,"  to  make  a  sleeping  place.  When  the  unsuc 
cessful  hunters  returned,  I  had  everything  quite 
comfortable,  and  was  steaming  at  the  rate  of  about 
ten  horse-power  a  minute.  Young  Telemachus  was 
sorry  to  give  up  the  moose  so  soon,  and,  with  the 
teeth  chattering  almost  out  of  his  head,  he  declared 
that  he  would  like  to  stick  it  out  all  night.  However, 
he  reconciled  himself  to  the  fire,  and,  making  our 
beds  of  some  "splits"  which  we  poked  from  the  roof, 
we  lay  down  at  half  past  two.  I,  who  have  inherited 
a  habit  of  looking  into  every  closet  before  I  go  to  bed, 
for  fear  of  fire,  had  become  in  two  days  such  a  stoic 
of  the  woods,  that  I  went  to  sleep  tranquilly,  certain 
that  my  bedroom  would  be  in  a  blaze  before  morning. 
And  so,  indeed,  it  was;  and  the  withes  that  bound 


94  FIRESIDE    TRAVELS. 

it  together  being  burned  off,  one  of  the  sides  fell  in 
without  waking  me. 

Tuesday,  i6th.  —  After  a  sleep  of  two  hours  and  a 
half,  so  sound  that  it  was  as  good  as  eight,  we  started 
at  half  past  four  for  the  haymakers'  camp  again.  We 
found  them  just  getting  breakfast.  We  sat  down 
upon  the  deacon-seat  before  the  fire  blazing  between 
the  bedroom  and  the  salle  a  manger,  which  were 
simply  two  roofs  of  spruce-bark,  sloping  to  the  ground 
on  one  side,  the  other  three  being  left  open.  We  found 
that  we  had,  at  least,  been  luckier  than  the  other  party, 
for  M.  had  brought  back  his  convoy  without  even  see 
ing  a  moose.  As  there  was  not  room  at  the  table  for 
all  of  us  to  breakfast  together,  these  hospitable  wood 
men  forced  us  to  sit  down  first,  although  we  resisted 
stoutly.  Our  breakfast  consisted  of  fresh  bread,  fried 
salt  pork,  stewed  whortleberries,  and  tea.  Our  kind 
hosts  refused  to  take  money  for  it,  nor  would  M. 
accept  anything  for  his  trouble.  This  seemed  even 
more  open-handed  when  I  remembered  that  they  had 
brought  all  their  stores  over  the  Carry  upon  their 
shoulders,  paying  an  ache  extra  for  every  pound.  If 
their  hospitality  lacked  anything  of  hard  external 
polish,  it  had  all  the  deeper  grace  which  springs  only 
from  sincere  manliness.  I  have  rarely  sat  at  a  table 
d'hote  which  might  not  have  taken  a  lesson  from  them 
in  essential  courtesy.  I  have  never  seen  a  finer  race 
of  men.  They  have  all  the  virtues  of  the  sailor,  with 
out  that  unsteady  roll  in  the  gait  with  which  the  ocean 
proclaims  itself  quite  as  much  in  the  moral  as  in  the 
physical  habit  of  a  man.  They  appeared  to  me  to 


A   MOOSEHEAD  JOURNAL.  95 

have  hewn  out  a  short  northwest  passage  through 
wintry  woods  to  those  spice-lands  of  character  which 
we  dwellers  in  cities  must  reach,  if  at  all,  by  weary 
voyages  in  the  monotonous  track  of  the  trades. 

By  the  way,  as  we  were  embirching  last  evening  for 
our  moose-chase,  I  asked  what  I  was  to  do  with  my 
baggage.  "  Leave  it  here,"  said  our  guide,  and  he 
laid  the  bags  upon  a  platform  of  alders,  which  he  bent 
down  to  keep  them  beyond  reach  of  the  rising  water. 

" Will  they  be  safe  here?" 

"As  safe  as  they  would  be  locked  up  in  your  house 
at  home." 

And  so  I  found  them  at  my  return;  only  the  hay 
makers  had  carried  them  to  their  camp  for  greater 
security  against  the  chances  of  the  weather. 

We  got  back  to  Kineo  in  time  for  dinner;  and  in 
the  afternoon,  the  weather  being  fine,  went  up  the 
mountain.  As  we  landed  at  the  foot,  our  guide 
pointed  to  the  remains  of  a  red  shirt  and  a  pair  of 
blanket  trousers.  "That,"  said  he,  "is  the  reason 
there  's  such  a  trade  in  ready-made  clo'es.  A  suit  gits 
pooty  well  wore  out  by  the  time  a  camp  breaks  up  in 
the  spring,  and  the  lumberers  want  to  look  about  right 
when  they  come  back  into  the  settlements,  so  they  buy 
somethin'  ready-made,  and  heave  ole  bust-up  into  the 
bush."  True  enough,  thought  I,  this  is  the  Ready- 
made  Age.  It  is  quicker  being  covered  than  fitted. 
j  So  we  all  go  to  the  slop-shop  and  come  out  uniformed, 
every  mother's  son  with  habits  of  thinking  and  doing 
cut  on  one  pattern,  with  no  special  reference  to  his 
peculiar  build. 


96  FIRESIDE    TRAVELS. 

Kineo  rises  1750  feet  above  the  sea,  and  750  above 
the  lake.  The  climb  is  very  easy,  with  fine  outlooks 
at  every  turn  over  lake  and  forest.  Near  the  top  is  a 
spring  of  water,  which  even  Uncle  Zeb  might  have 
allowed  to  be  wholesome.  The  little  tin  dipper  was 
'scratched  all  over  with  names,  showing  that  vanity, 
at  least,  is  not  put  out  of  breath  by  the  ascent.  O 
Ozymandias,  King  of  kings!  We  are  all  scrawling 
on  something  of  the  kind.  "My  name  is  engraved 
on  the  institutions  of  my  country,"  thinks  the  states 
man.  But,  alas !  institutions  are  as  changeable  as 
tin-dippers;  men  are  content  to  drink  the  same  old 
water,  if  the  shape  of  the  cup  only  be  new,  and  our 
friend  gets  two  lines  in  the  Biographical  Dictionaries. 
After  all,  these  inscriptions,  which  make  us  smile  up 
here,  are  about  as  valuable  as  the  Assyrian  ones  which 
Hincks  and  Rawlinson  read  at  cross-purposes.  Have 
we  not  Smiths  and  Browns  enough,  that  we  must 
ransack  the  ruins  of  NimrQiid  for  more?  Near  the 
spring  we  met  a  Bloomer !  It  was  the  first  chronic 
one  I  had  ever  seen.  It  struck  me  as  a  sensible  cos 
tume  for  the  occasion,  and  it  will  be  the  only  wear  in 
the  Greek  Kalends,  when  women  believe  that  sense 
is  an  equivalent  for  grace. 

The  forest  primeval  is  best  seen  from  the  top  of  a 
mountain.  It  then  impresses  one  by  its  extent,  like 
an  Qrigntal_epic.  To  be  in  it  is  nothing,  for  then  an 
acre  is  as  good  as  a  thousand  square  miles.  You 
cannot  see  five  rods  in  any  direction,  and  the  ferns, 
mosses,  and  tree-trunks  just  around  you  are  the  best 
of  it.  As  for  solitude,  night  will  make  a  better  one 


A   MOOSEHEAD  JOURNAL.  97 

with  ten  feet  square  of  pitch  dark;  and  mere  size  is 
hardly  an  element  of  grandeur,  except  in  works  of 
man,  —  as  the  Colosseum.  It  is  through  one  or  the 
other  pole  of  vanity  that  men  feel  the  sublime  in  moun 
tains.  It  is  either,  How  small  great  I  am  beside  it ! 
or,  Big  as  you  are,  little  I's  soul  will  hold  a  dozen  of 
you.  The  true  idea  of  a  forest  is  not  a  selva  selvaggia, 
but  something  humanized  a  little,  as  we  imagine  the 
forest  of  Arden,  with  trees  standing  at  royal  intervals, 
—  a  commonwealth,  and  not  a  communism.  To 
some  moods,  it  is  congenial  to  look  over  endless 
leagues  of  unbroken  savagery  without  a  hint  of  man. 

Wednesday.  —  This  morning  fished.  Telemachus 
caught  a  laker  of  thirteen  pounds  and  a  half,  and  I  an 
overgrown  cusk,  which  we  threw  away,  but  which  I 
found  afterwards  Agassiz  would  have  been  glad  of, 
for  all  is  fish  that  comes  to  his  net,  from  the  fossil 
down.  The  fish,  when  caught,  are  straightway 
knocked  on  the  head.  A  lad  who  went  with  us  seem 
ing  to  show  an  over-zeal  in  this  operation,  we  re 
monstrated.  But  he  gave  a  good,  human  reason  for 
it,  —  "He  no  need  to  ha'  gone  and  been  a  fish  if  he 
did  n't  like  it,"  —  an  excuse  which  superior  strength 
or  cunning  has  always  found  sufficient.  It  was  some 
comfort,  in  this  case,  to  think  that  St.  Jerome  believed 
in  a  limitation  of  God's  providence,  and  that  it  did 
not  extend  to  inanimate  things  or  creatures  devoid  of 
reason. 

Thus,  my  dear  Storg,  I  have  finished  my  Oriental 
adventures,  and  somewhat,  it  must  be  owned,  in  the 
diffuse  Oriental  manner.  There  is  very  little  about 


9.8  FIRESIDE    TRAVELS. 

Moosehead  Lake  in  it,  and  not  even  the  Latin  name 
f  jr  moose,  which  I  might  have  obtained  by  sufficient 
research.  If  I  had  killed  one,  I  would  have  given  you 
his  name  in  that  dead  language.  I  did  not  profess  to 
give  you  an  account  of  the  lake ;  but  a  journal,  and, 
moreover,  my  journal,  with  a  little  nature,  a  little 
human  nature,  and  a  great  deal  of  I  in  it,  which  last 
ingredient  I  take  to  be  the  true  spirit  of  this  species 
of  writing ;  all  the  rest  being  so  much  water  for  tendei 
throats  which  cannot  take  it  neat. 


LEAVES  FROM  MY  JOURNAL 
IN    ITALY   AND    ELSE 
WHERE. 


AT  SEA. 

THE  sea  was  meant  to  be  looked  at  from  shore,  as 
mountains  are  from  the  plain.  Lucretius  made  this 
discovery  long  ago,  and  was  blunt  enough  to  blurt  it 
forth,  romance  and  sentiment  —  in  other  words,  the 
pretence  of  feeling  what  we  do  not  feel  —  being  in 
ventions  of  a  later  day.  To  be  sure,  Cicero  used  to 
twaddle  about  Greek  literature  and  philosophy,  much 
as  people  do  about  ancient  art  nowadays;  but  I 
rather  sympathize  with  those  stout  old  Romans  who 
despised  both,  and  believed  that  to  found  an  empire 
was  as  grand  an  achievement  as  to  build  an  epic  or  to 
carve  a  statue.  But  though  there  might  have  been 
twaddle  (as  why  not,  since  there  was  a  Senate?)  I 
rather  think  Petrarch  was  the  'first  choragus  of  that 
sentimental  dance  which  so  long  led  young  folks  away 
from  the  realities  of  life  like  the  piper  of  Hamelin,  and 
whose  succession  ended,  let  us  hope,  with  Chateau 
briand.  But  for  them,  Byron,  whose  real  strength  lay 
in  his  sincerity,  would  never  have  talked  about  the 
"sea  bounding  beneath  him  like  a  steed  that  knows 
his  rider,"  and  all  that  sort  of  thing.  Even  if  it  had 
been  true,  steam  has  been  as  fatal  to  that  part  of  the 
romance  of  the  sea  as  to  hand-loom  weaving.  But 
what  say  you  to  a  twelve  days'  calm  such  as  we  dozed 
through  in  rnid-Atlantic  and  in  mid-August?  I 
know  nothing  so  tedious  at  once  and  exasperating 
101 


IO2  FIRESIDE    TRAVELS. 

as  that  regular  slap  of  the  wilted  sails  when  the  ship 
rises  and  falls  with  the  slow  breathing  of  the  sleeping 
sea,  one  greasy,  brassy  swell  following  another,  slow, 
smooth,  immitigable  as  the  series  of  Wordsworth's 
"Ecclesiastical  Sonnets."  Even  at  his  best,  Neptune, 
in  a  t&te-ti-t&te,  has  a  way  of  repeating  himself,  an 
obtuseness  to  the  ne  quid  nimis,  that  is  stupefying. 
It  reminds  me  of  organ  music  and  my  good  friend 
Sebastian  Bach.  A  fugue  or  two  will  do  very  well ; 
but  a  concert  made  up  of  nothing  else  is  altogether 
too  epic  for  me.  There  is  nothing  so  desperately 
monotonous  as  the  sea,  and  I  no  longer  wonder  at  the 
cruelty  of  pirates.  Fancy  an  existence  in  which  the 
}  coming  up  of  a  clumsy  finback  whale,  who  says  Pooh  ! 
to  you  solemnly  as  you  lean  over  the  taffrail  is  an 
(event  as  exciting  as  an  election  on  shore  !  The  damp 
ness  seems  to  strike  into  the  wits  as  into  the  lucifer- 
matches,  so  that  one  may  scratch  a  thought  half  a 
dozen  times  and  get  nothing  at  last  but  a  faint  sputter, 
the  forlorn  hope  of  fire,  which  only  goes  far  enough  to 
leave  a  sense  of  suffocation  behind  it.  Even  smoking 
becomes  an  employment  instead  of  a  solace.  Who 
less  likely  to  come  to  their  wit's  end  than  W.  M.  T. 
and  A.  H.  C.  ?  Yet  I  have  seen  them  driven  to  five 
meals  a  day  for  mental  occupation.  I  sometimes  sit 
and  pity  Noah ;  but  even  he  had  this  advantage  over 
all  succeeding  navigators,  that,  wherever  he  landed, 
he  was  sure  to  get  no  ill  news  from  home.  He  should 
be  canonized  as  the  patron-saint  of  newspaper  cor 
respondents,  being  the  only  man  whc«  ever  had  the 
very  last  authentic  intelligence  from  everywhere. 


AT  SEA.  IC>3 

The  finback  whale  recorded  just  above  has  much 
the  look  of  a  brown-paper  parcel,  —  the  whitish 
stripes  that  run  across  him  answering  for  the  pack 
thread.  Hq  has  a  kind  of  accidental  hole  in  the  top 
of  his  head,  through  which  he  pooh-poohs  the  rest  of 
creation,  and  which  looks  as  if  it  had  been  made  by 
the  chance  thrust  of  a  chestnut  rail.  He  was  our  first 
event.  Our  second  was  harpooning  a  sunfish,  which 
basked  dozing  on  the  lap  of  the  sea,  looking  so  much 
like  the  giant  turtle  of  an  alderman's  dream,  that  I  am 
persuaded  he  would  have  made  mock -turtle  soup 
rather  than  acknowledge  his  imposture.  But  he  broke 
away  just  as  they  were  hauling  him  over  the  side,  and 
sank  placidly  through  the  clear  water,  leaving  behind 
him  a  crimson  trail  that  wavered  a  moment  and  was 
gone. 

The  sea,  though,  has  better  sights  than  these. 
When  we  were  up  with  the  Azores,  we  began  to  meet 
flying-fish  and  Portuguese  men-of-war  beautiful  as 
the  galley  of  Cleopatra,  tiny  craft  that  dared  these 
seas  before  Columbus.  I  have  seen  one  of  the  former 
rise  from  the  crest  of  a  wave,  and,  glancing  from 
another  some  two  hundred  feet  beyond,  take  a  fresh 
flight  of  perhaps  as  long.  How  Calderon  would  have 
similized  this  pretty  creature  had  he  ever  seen  it! 
How  would  he  have  run  him  up  and  down  the  gamut 
of  simile  !  If  a  fish,  then  a  fish  with  wings;  if  a  bird, 
then  a  bird  with  fins ;  and  so  on,  keeping  up  the  poor 
shuttlecock  of  a  conceit  as  is  his  wont.  Indeed,  the 
poor  thing  is  the  most  killing  bait  for  a  comparison, 
and  I  assure  you  I  have  three  or  four  in  my  inkstand ; 


104  FIRESIDE    TRAVELS, 

—  but  be  calm,  they  shall  stay  there.  Moore,  who 
looked  on  all  nature  as  a  kind  of  Gradus  ad  Parnas- 
sum,  a  thesaurus  of  similitude,  and  spent  his  life  in  a 
game  of  What  is  my  thought  like?  with  himself,  did 
the  flying-fish  on  his  way  to  Bermuda.  So  I  leave 
him  in  peace. 

The  most  beautiful  thing  I  have  seen  at  sea,  all  the 
more  so  that  I  had  never  heard  of  it,  is  the  trail  of  a 
shoal  of  fish  through  the  phosphorescent  water.  It 
is  like  a  flight  of  silver  rockets,  or  the  streaming  of 
northern  lights  through  that  silent  nether  heaven.  I 
thought  nothing  could  go  beyond  that  rustling  star- 
foam  which  was  churned  up  by  our  ship's  bows,  or 
those  eddies  and  disks  of  dreamy  flame  that  rose  and 
wandered  out  of  sight  behind  us. 

'T  was  fire  our  ship  was  plunging  through, 
Cold  fire  that  o'er  the  quarter  flew  ; 
And  wandering  moons  of  idle  flame 
Grew  full  and  waned,  and  went  and  came, 
Dappling  with  light  the  huge  sea  snake 
That  slid  behind  us  in  the  wake. 

But  there  was  something  even  more  delicately  rare 
in  the  apparition  of  the  fish,  as  they  turned  up  in 
gleaming  furrows  the  latent  moonshine  which  the 
ocean  seemed  to  have  hoarded  against  these  vacant 
interlunar  nights.  In  the  Mediterranean  one  day,  as 
we  were  lying  becalmed,  I  observed  the  water  freckled 
with  dingy  specks,  which  at  last  gathered  to  a  pink 
ish  scum  on  the  surface.  The  sea  had  been  so  phos 
phorescent  for  some  nights,  that  when  the  Captain 
gave  me  my  bath,  by  dousing  me  with  buckets  from 
the  house  on  deck,  the  spray  flew  off  my  head  and 


AT  SEA.  IO5 

shoulders  in  sparks.  It  occurred  to  me  that  this  dirty- 
looking  scum  might  be  the  luminous  matter,  and  I  had 
a  pailful  dipped  up  to  keep  till  after  dark.  When  I 
went  to  look  at  it  after  nightfall,  it  seemed  at  first 
perfectly  dead ;  but  when  I  shook  it,  the  whole  broke 
out  into  what  I  can  only  liken  to  milky  flames,  whose 
lambent  silence  was  strangely  beautiful,  and  startled 
me  almost  as  actual  projection  might  an  alchemist.  I 
could  not  bear  to  be  the  death  of  so  much  beauty ;  so 
I  poured  it  all  overboard  again. 

Another  sight  worth  taking  a  voyage  for  is  that  of 
the  sails  by  moonlight.  Our  course  was  "south  and 
by  east,  half  south,"  so  that  we  seemed  bound  for  the 
full  moon  as  she  rolled  up  over  our  wavering  horizon. 
Then  I  used  to  go  forward  to  the  bowsprit  and  look 
back.  Our  ship  was  a  clipper,  with  every  rag  set, 
stunsails,  sky-scrapers,  and  all;  nor  was  it  easy  to 
believe  that  such  a  wonder  could  be  built  of  canvas  as 
that  white  many-storied  pile  of  cloud  that  stooped 
over  me,  or  drew  back  as  we  rose  and  fell  with  the 
waves. 

These  are  all  the  wonders  I  can  recall  of  my  five 
weeks  at  sea,  except  the  sun.  Were  you  ever  alone 
with  the  sun?  You  think  it  a  very  simple  question; 
but  I  never  was,  in  the  full  sense  of  the  word,  till  I  was 
held  up  to  him  one  cloudless  day  on  the  broad  buckler 
of  the  ocean.  I  suppose  one  might  have  the  same 
feeling  in  the  desert.  I  remember  getting  something 
like  it  years  ago,  when  I  climbed  alone  to  the  top  of  a 
mountain,  and  lay  face  up  on  the  hot  gray  moss, 
striving  to  get  a  notion  of  how  an  Arab  might  feel.  It 


106  FIRESIDE    TRAVELS. 

was  my  American  commentary  of  the  Koran,  and  not 
a  bad  one.  In  a  New  England  winter,  too,  when 
everything  is  gagged  with  snow,  as  if  some  gigantic 
physical  geographer  were  taking  a  cast  of  the  earth's 
face  in  plaster,  the  bare  knob  of  a  hill  will  introduce 
you  to  the  sun  as  a  comparative  stranger.  But  at  sea 
you  may  be  alone  with  him  day  after  day,  and  almost 
all  day  long.  I  never  understood  before  that  nothing 
short  of  full  daylight  can  give  the  supremest  sense  of 
solitude.  Darkness  will  not  do  so,  for  the  imagina 
tion  peoples  it  with  more  shapes  than  ever  were  poured 
from  the  frozen  loins  of  the  populous  North.  The 
sun,  I  sometimes  think,  is  a  little  grouty  at  sea,  espe 
cially  at  high  noon,  feeling  that  he  wastes  his  beams  on 
those  fruitless  furrows.  It  is  otherwise  with  the  moon. 
She  "  comforts  the  night,"  as  Chapman  finely  says, 
and  I  always  found  her  a  companionable  creature. 

In  the  ocean-horizon  I  took  untiring  delight.  It 
is  the  true  magic-circle  of  expectation  and  conjecture 
—  almost  as  good  as  a  wishing-ring.  What  will  rise 
over  that  edge  we  sail  toward  daily  and  never  over 
take?  A  sail?  an  island?  the  new  shore  of  the  Old 
World?  Something  rose  every  day,  which  I  need  not 
have  gone  so  far  to  see,  but  at  whose  levee  I  was  a 
much  more  faithful  courtier  than  on  shore.  A  cloud 
less  sunrise  in  mid-ocean  is  beyond  comparison  for 
simple  grandeur.  It  is  like  Dante's  style,  bare  and 
perfect.  Naked  sun  meets  naked  sea,  the  true  classic 
of  nature.  There  may  be  more  sentiment  in  morning 
on  shore,  —  the  shivering  fairy-jewelry  of  dew,  the 
silver  point-lace  of  sparkling  hoar-frost,  —  but  there 


AT  SEA.  lO/ 

is  also  more  complexity,  more  of  the  romantic.  The 
one  savors  of  the  elder  Edda,  the  other  of  the  Minne 
singers.  . 

And  I  thus  floating,  lonely  elf, 

A  kind  of  planet  by  myself, 

The  mists  draw  up  and  furl  away, 

And  in  the  east  a  warming  gray, 

Faint  as  the  tint  of  oaken  woods 

When  o'er  their  buds  May  breathes  and  broods, 

Tells  that  the  golden  sunrise-tide 

Is  lapsing  up  earth's  thirsty  side, 

Each  moment  purpling  on  the  crest 

Of  some  stark  billow  farther  west : 

And  as  the  sea-moss  droops  and  hears 

The  gurgling  flood  that  nears  and  nears, 

And  then  with  tremulous  content 

Floats  out  each  thankful  filament, 

So  waited  I  until  it  came, 

God's  daily  miracle,  —  O  shame 

That  1  had  seen  so  many  days 

Unthankful,  without  wondering  praise, 

Not  recking  more  this  bliss  of  earth 

Than  the  cheap  fire  that  lights  my  hearth! 

But  now  glad  thoughts  and  holy  pour 

Into  my  heart,  as  once  a  year 

To  San  Miniato's  open  door, 

In  long  procession,  chanting  clear, 

Through  slopes  of  sun,  through  shadows  hoar, 

The  coupled  monks  slow-climbing  sing, 

And  like  a  golden  censer  swing  « 

From  rear  to  front,  from  front  to  rear 

Their  alternating  bursts  of  praise, 

Till  the  roof's  fading  seraphs  gaze 

Down  through  an  odorous  mist,  that  crawls 

Lingeringly  up  the  darkened  walls 

And  the  dim  arches,  silent  long, 

Are  startled  with  triumphant  song. 

I  wrote  yesterday  that  the  sea  still  rimmed  our 
prosy  lives  with  mystery  and  conjecture.  But  one 
is  shut  up  on  shipboard  like  Montaigne  in  his  tower, 
with  nothing  to  do  but  to  review  his  own  thoughts  and 


108  FIRESIDE    TRAVELS. 

contradict  himself.  Dire,  redire,  et  me  contredire, 
will  be  the  staple  of  my  journal  till  I  see  land.  I  say 
nothing  of  such  matters  as  the  montagna  fauna  on 
which  Ulysses  wrecked;  but  since  the  sixteenth  cen 
tury  could  any  man  reasonably  hope  to  stumble  on  one 
of  those  wonders  which  were  cheap  as  dirt  in  the  days 
of  St.  Saga?  Faustus,  Don  Juan,  and  Tanhauser  are 
the  last  ghosts  of  legend,  that  lingered  almost  till  the 
Gallic  cock-crow  of  universal  enlightenment  and  dis 
illusion.  The  Public  School  has  done  for  Imagina 
tion.  What  shall  I  see  in  Outre-Mer,  or  on  the  way 
thither,  but  what  can  be  seen  with  eyes?  To  be 
sure,  I  stick  by  the  sea-serpent,  and  would  fain  believe 
that  science  has  scotched,  not  killed  him.  Nor  is  he 
to  be  lightly  given  up,  for,  like  the  old  Scandinavian 
snake,  he  binds  together  for  us  the  two  hemispheres 
of  Past  and  Present,  of  Belief  and  Science.  He  is  the 
link  which  knits  us  seaboard  Yankees  with  our  Nors*e 
progenitors,  interpreting  between  the  age  of  the  dragon 
and  that  of  the  railroad-train.  We  have  made  ducks 
and  drakes  of  that  large  estate  of  wonder  and  delight 
bequeathed  to  us  by  ancestral  vikings,  and  this  alone 
remains  to  us  unthrift  heirs  of  Linn. 

I  feel  an  undefined  respect  for  a  man  who  has  seen 
the  sea-serpent.  He  is  to  his  brother-fishers  what 
the  poet  is  to  his  fellow-men.  Where  they  have  seen 
nothing  better  than  a  school  of  horse-mackerel,  or  the 
idle  coils  of  ocean  around  Half-way  Rock,  he  has 
caught  authentic  glimpses  of  the  withdrawing  mantle- 
hem  of  the  Edda  age.  I  care  not  for  the  monster  him 
self.  It  is  not  the  thing,  but  the  belief  in  the  thing, 


AT  SEA. 


that  is  dear  to  me.  May  it  be  long  before  Professor 
Owen  is  comforted  with  the  sight  of  his  unfleshed 
vertebrae,  long  before  they  stretch  many  a  rood  behind 
Kimball's  or  Barnum's  glass,  reflected  in  the  shallow 
orbs  of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Public,  which  stare,  but  see  not  ! 
When  we  read  that  Captain  Spalding,  of  the  pink- 
stern  Three  Follies,  has  beheld  him  rushing  through 
the  brine  like  an  infinite  series  of  bewitched  mackerel 
casks,  we  feel  that  the  mystery  of  old  Ocean,  at  least, 
has  not  yet  been  sounded,  —  that  Faith  and  Awe 
survive  there  unevaporate.  I  once  ventured  the 
horse-mackerel  theory  to  an  old  fisherman,  browner 
than  a  tomcod.  "Hos-mackril  !"  he  exclaimed  in 
dignantly,  "hos-mackril  be  —  "  (here  he  used  a  phrase 
commonly  indicated  in  laical  literature  by  the  same 
sign  which  serves  for  Doctorate  in  Divinity),  "  don't 
yer  spose  I  know  a  hos-mackril?"  The  intonation 
of  that  "/"  would  have  silenced  Professor  Monk- 
barns.  Owen  with  his  provoking  pkoca  forever.  What 
if  one  should  ask  him  if  he  knew  a  trilobite  ? 

The  fault  of  modern  travellers  is,  that  they  see 
nothing  out  of  sight.  They  talk  of  eocene  periods 
and  tertiary  formations,  and  tell  us  how  the  world 
looked  to  the  plesiosaur.  They  take  science  (or 
nescience)  with  them,  instead  of  that  soul  of  generous 
trust  their  elders  had.  All  their  senses  are  sceptics  and 
doubters,  materialists  reporting  things  for  other  scep 
tics  to  doubt  still  further  upon.  Nature  becomes  a 
reluctant  witness  upon  the  stand,  badgered  with  geolo 
gist  hammers  and  phials  of  acid.  There  have  been 
no  travellers  since  those  included  in  Hakluyt  and 


IIO  FIRESIDE    TRAVELS. 

Purchas,  except  Martin,  perhaps,  who  saw  an  inch 
or  two  into  the  invisible  at  the  Orkneys.  We  have 
peripatetic  lecturers,  but  no  more  travellers.  Trav 
ellers'  stories  are  no  longer  proverbial.  We  have 
picked  nearly  every  apple  (wormy  or  otherwise) 
from  the  world's  tree  of  knowledge,  and  that  without 
an  Eve  to  tempt  us.  Two  or  three  have  hitherto 
hung  luckily  beyond  reach  on  a  lofty  bou^h  shadow 
ing  the  interior  of  Africa,  but  there  is  a  German  Doc 
tor  at  this  very  moment  pelting  at  them  with  sticks  and 
stones.  It  may  be  only  next  week,  and  these  too, 
bitten  by  geographers  and  geologists,  will  be  thrown 
away. 

Analysis  is  carried  into  everything.  Even  Deity  is 
subjected  to  chemic  tests.  We  must  have  exact 
knowledge,  a  cabinet  stuck  full  of  facts  pressed,  dried, 
or  preserved  in  spirits,  instead  of  the  large,  vague 
.  world  our  fathers  had.  With  them  science  was 
poetry;  with  us,  poetry  is  science.  Our  modern 
Eden  is  a  hortus  siccus.  Tourists  defraud  rather 
than  enrich  us.  They  have  not  that  sense  of  aesthetic 
proportion  which  characterized  the  elder  traveller. 
Earth  is  no  longer  the  fine  work  of  art  it  was,  for  noth 
ing  is  left  to  the  imagination.  Job  Hortop,  arrived 
at  the  height  of  the  Bermudas,  thinks  it  full  time  to 
indulge  us  in  a  merman.  Nay,  there  is  a  story  told 
by  Webster,  in  his  "Witchcraft,"  of  a  merman  with  a 
mitre,  who,  on  being  sent  back  to  his  watery  diocese 
of  finland,  made  what  advances  he  could  toward  an 
episcopal  benediction  by  bowing  his  head  thrice. 
Doubtless  he  had  been  consecrated  by  St.  Antony  of 


A  T  SEA.  I  I  I 

Padua.  A  dumb  bishop  would  be  sometimes  no 
unpleasant  phenomenon,  by  the  way.  Sir  John 
Hawkins  is  not  satisfied  with  telling  us  about  the 
merely  sensual  Canaries,  but  is  generous  enough  to 
throw  us  in  a  handful  of  "certain  flitting  islands''  to 
boot.  Henry  Hawkes  describes  the  visible  Mexican 
cities,  and  then  is  not  so  frugal  but  that  he  can  give 
us  a  few  invisible  ones.  Thus  do  these  generous 
ancient  mariners  make  children  of  us  again.  Their 
successors  show  us  an  earth  effete  and  past  bearing, 
tracing  out  with  the  eyes  of  industrious  fleas  every 
wrinkle  and  crowfoot. 

The  journals  of  the  elder  navigators  are  prose 
Odysseys.  The  geographies  of  our  ancestors  were 
works  of  fancy  and  imagination.  They  read  poems 
where  we  yawn  over  items.  Their  world  was  a  huge 
wonder-horn,  exhaustless  as  that  which  Thor  strove 
to  drain.  Ours  would  scarce  quench  the  small 
thirst  of  a  bee.  No  modern  voyager  brings  back  the 
magical  foundation  stones  of  a  Tempest.  No  Marco 
Polo,  traversing  the  desert  beyond  the  city-  of  Lok, 
would  tell  of  things  able  to  inspire  the  mind  of  Milton 
with 

"  Calling  shapes  and  beckoning  shadows  dire, 
And  airy  tongues  that  syllable  men's  names 
On  sands  and  shores  and  desert  wildernesses." 

It  was  easy  enough  to  believe  the  story  of  Dante, 
when  two  thirds  of  even  the  upper- world  were  yet  un- 
traversed  and  unmapped.  With  every  step  of  the 
recent  traveller  our  inheritance  of  the  wonderful  is 
diminished.  Those  beautifully  pictured  notes  of  the 


112  FIRESIDE    TRAVELS. 

Possible  are  redeemed  at  a  ruinous  discount  in  the 
hard  and  cumbrous  coin  of  the  Actual.  How  are  we 
not  defrauded  and  impoverished?  Does  California 
vie  with  El  Dorado?  or  are  Bruce's  Abyssinian  kings 
a  set-off  for  Prester  John?  A  bird  in  the  bush  is 
worth  two  in  the  hand.  And  if  the  philosophers  have 
not  even  yet  been  able  to  agree  whether  the  world 
has  any  existence  independent  of  ourselves,  how  do 
we  not  gain  a  loss  in  every  addition  to  the  catalogue 
of  Vulgar  Errors?  Where  are  the  fishes  which  nidi 
ficated  in  trees?  Where  the  monopodes  sheltering 
themselves  from  the  sun  beneath  their  single  um 
brella-like  foot,  —  umbrella-like  in  everything  but 
the  fatal  necessity  of  being  borrowed?  Where  the 
Acephali,  with  whom  Herodotus,  in  a  kind  of  ecstasy, 
wound  up  his  climax  of  men  with  abnormal  top- 
pieces?  Where  the  Roc  whose  eggs  are  possibly 
boulders,  needing  no  far-fetched  theory  of  glacier  or 
iceberg  to  account  for  them  ?  Where  the  tails  of  the 
men  of  Kent  ?  Where  the  no  legs  of  the  bird  of  para 
dise  ?  Where  the  Unicorn,  with  that  single  horn  of  his, 
sovereign  against  all  manner  of  poisons  ?  Where  the 
Fountain  of  Youth?  Where  that  Thessalian  spring, 
which,  without  cost  to  the  country,  convicted  and 
punished  perjurers?  Where  the  Amazons  of  Orel- 
lana?  All  these,  and  a  thousand  other  varieties,  we 
have  lost,  and  have  got  nothing  instead  of  them 
And  those  who  have  robbed  us  of  them  have  stolen 
that  which  not  enriches  themselves.  It  is  so  much 
wealth  cast  into  the  sea  beyond  all  approach  of  diving- 
bells.  We  owe  no  thanks  to  Mr.  J.  E.  Worcester, 


AT  SEA.  113 

whose  Geography  we  studied  enforcedly  at  school. 
Yet  even  he  had  his  relentings,  and  in  some  softer 
moment  vouchsafed  us  a  fine,  inspiring  print  of 
the  Maelstrom,  answerable  to  the  twenty-four  mile 
diameter  of  its  suction.  Year  by  year,  more  and 
more  of  the  world  gets  disenchanted.  Even  the  icy 
privacy  of  the  arctic  and  antarctic  circles  is  invaded. 
Our  youth  are  no  longer  ingenious,  as  indeed  no 
ingenuity  is  demanded  of  them.  Everything  is  ac 
counted  for,  everything  cut  and  dried,  and  the  world 
may  be  put  together  as  easily  as  the  fragments  of  a 
dissected  map.  The  Mysterious  bounds  nothing 
now  on  the  North,  South,  East,  or  West.  We  have 
played  Jack  Horner  with  our  earth,  till  there  is  never 
a  plum  left  in  it. 


IN  THE  MEDITERRANEAN. 

THE  first  sight  of  a  shore  so  historical  as  that  of 
Europe  gives  an  American  a  strange  thrill.  What 
we  always  feel  the  artistic  want  of  at  home,  is  back 
ground.  It  is  all  idle  to  say  we  are  Englishmen,  and 
that  English  history  is  ours  too.  It  is  precisely  in 
this  that  we  are  not  Englishmen,  inasmuch  as  we. only 
possess  their  history  through  our  minds,  and  not  by 
life-long  association  with  a  spot  and  an  idea  we  call 
England.  History  without  the  soil  it  grew  in,  is  more 
instructive  than  inspiring,  —  an  acquisition,  and  not 
an  inheritance.  It  is  laid  away  in  our  memories,  and 
does  not  run  in  our  veins.  Surely,  in  all  that  concerns 
aesthetics,  Europeans  have  us  at  an  immense  advan 
tage.  They  start  at  a  point  which  we  arrive  at  after 
weary  years,  for  literature  is  not  shut  up  in  books,  nor 
art  in  galleries:  both  are  taken  in  by  unconscious 
absorption  through  the  finer  pores  of  mind  and  char 
acter  in  the  atmosphere  of  society.  We  are  not  yet 
out  of  our  Crusoe-hood,  and  must  make  our  own 
tools  as  best  we  may.  Yet  I  think  we  shall  find  the 
good  of  it  one  of  these  days,  in  being  thrown  back 
more  wholly  on  nature;  and  our  literature,  when  we 
have  learned  to  feel  our  own  strength,  and  to  respect 
our  own  thought  because  it  is  ours,  and  not  because 
the  European  Mrs.  Grundy  agrees  with  it,  will  have 
114 


IN  THE  MEDITERRANEAN.  115 

a  fresh  flavor  and  a  strong  body  that  will  recommend 
it,  especially  as  what  we  import  is  watered  more  and 
more  liberally  with  every  vintage. 

My  first  glimpse  of  Europe  was  the  shore  of  Spain. 
Since  we  got  into  the  Mediterranean,  we  have  been 
becalmed  for  some  days  within  easy  view  of  it.  All 
along  are  fine  mountains,  brown  all  day,  and  with  a 
bloom  on  them  at  sunset  like  that  of  a  ripe  plum. 
Here  and  there  at  their  feet  little  white  towns  are 
sprinkled  along  the  edge  of  the  water,  like  the  grains 
of  rice  dropped  by  the  princess  in  the  story.  Some 
times  we  see  larger  buildings  on  the  mountain  slopes, 
probably  convents.  I  sit  and  wonder  whether  the 
farther  peaks  may  not  be  the  Sierra  Morena  (the 
rusty  saw)  of  Don  Quixote.  I  resolve  that  they  shall 
be,  and  am  content.  Surely  latitude  and  longitude 
never  showed  me  any  particular  respect,  that  I  should 
be  over-scrupulous  with  them. 

But  after  all,  Nature,  though  she  may  be  more 
beautiful,  is  nowhere  so  entertaining  as  in  man,  and 
the  best  thing  I  have  seen  and  learned  at  sea  is  our 
Chief  Mate.  My  first  acquaintance  with  him  was 
made  over  my  knife,  which  he  asked  to  look  at,  and, 
after  a  critical  examination,  handed  back  to  me,  say 
ing,  "I  should  n't  wonder  if  that  'ere  was  a  good  piece 
o'  stuff."  Since  then  he  has  transferred  a  part  of  his 
regard  for  my  knife  to  its  owner.  I  like  folks  who 
like  an  honest  bit  of  steel,  and  take  no  interest  what 
ever  in  "your  Raphaels,  Correggios,  and  stuff." 
There  is  always  more  than  the  average  human  nature 
in  a  man  who  has  a  hearty  sympathy  with  iron.  It 


Il6  FIRESIDE    TRAVELS. 

is  a  manly  metal,  with  no  sordid  associations  like  gold 
and  silver.  My  sailor  fully  came  up  to  my  expecta 
tion  on  further  acquaintance.  He  might  well  be  called 
an  old  salt  who  had  been  wrecked  on  Spitzbergen 
before  I  was  born.  He  was  not  an  American,  but  I 
should  never  have  guessed  it  by  his  speech,  which  was 
the  purest  Cape  Cod,  and  I  reckon  myself  a  good 
taster  of  dialects.  Nor  was  he  less  Americanized  in 
all  his  thoughts  and  feelings,  a  singular  proof  of  the 
ease  with  which  our  omnivorous  country  assimilates 
foreign  matter,  provided  it  be  Protestant,  for  he  was 
a  man  ere  he  became  an  American  citizen.  He  used 
to  walk  the  deck  with  his  hands  in  his  pockets,  in 
seeming  abstraction,  but  nothing  escaped  his  eye. 
How  he  saw,  I  could  never  make  out,  though  I  had  a 
theory  that  it  was  with  his  elbows.  After  he  had  taken 
me  (or  my  knife)  into  his  confidence,  he  took  care 
that  I  should  see  whatever  he  deemed  of  interest  to  a 
landsman.  Without  looking  up,  he  would  say,  sud 
denly,  "Ther  's  a  whale  blowin'  clearn  up  to  win'ard," 
or,  "Them  's  porpises  to  leeward:  that  means  change 
o'  wind."  He  is  as  impervious  to  cold  as  a  polar  bear, 
and  paces  the  deck  during  his  watch  much  as  one  of 
those  yellow  hummocks  goes  slumping  up  and  down 
his  cage.  On  the  Atlantic,  if  the  wind  blew  a  gale 
from  the  northeast,  and  it  was  cold  as  an  English 
summer,  he  was  sure  to  turn  out  in  a  calico  shirt  and 
trousers,  his  furzy  brown  chest  half  bare,  and  slippers, 
without  stockings.  But  lest  you  might  fancy  this  to 
have  chanced  by  defect  of  wardrobe,  he  comes  out 
in  a  monstrous  pea-jacket  here  in  the  Mediterranean, 


IN   THE  MEDITERRANEAN.  llj 

when  the  evening  is  so  hot  that  Adam  would  have 
been  glad  to  leave  off  his  fig-leaves.  "It 's  a  kind  o' 
damp  and  unwholesome  in  these  ere  waters,"  he  says, 
evidently  regarding  the  Midland  Sea  as  a  vile  standing 
pool,  in  comparison  with  the  bluff  ocean.  At  meals 
he  is  superb,  not  only  for  his  strengths,  but  his  weak 
nesses.  He  has  somehow  or  other  come  to  think  me 
a  wag,  and  if  I  ask  him  to  pass  the  butter,  detects  an 
occult  joke,  and  laughs  as  much  as  is  proper  for  a  mate. 
For  you  must  know  that  our  social  hierarchy  on  ship 
board  is  precise,  and  the  second  mate,  were  he  present, 
would  only  laugh  half  as  much  as  the  first.  Mr.  X. 
always  combs  his  hair,  and  works  himself  into  a  black 
frock-coat  (on  Sundays  he  adds  a  waistcoat)  before 
he  comes  to  meals,  sacrificing  himself  nobly  and  pain 
fully  to  the  social  proprieties.  The  second  mate,  on 
the  other  hand,  who  eats  after  us,  enjoys  the  privilege 
of  shirt-sleeves,  and  is,  I  think,  the  happier  man  of 
the  two.  We  do  not  have  seats  above  and  below  the 
salt,  as  in  old  time,  but  above  and  below  the  white 
sugar.  Mr.  X.  always  takes  brown  sugar,  and  it  is 
delightful  to  see  how  he  ignores  the  existence  of  cer 
tain  delicates  which  he  considers  above  his  grade, 
tipping  his  head  on  one  side  with  an  air  of  abstraction, 
so  that  he  may  seem  not  to  deny  himself,  but  to  omit 
helping  himself  from  inadvertence  or  absence  of  mind. 
At  such  times  he  wrinkles  his  forehead  in  a  peculiar 
manner,  inscrutable  at  first  as  a  cuneiform  inscrip 
tion,  but  as  easily  read  after  you  once  get  the  key. 
The  sense  of  it  is  something  like  this:  "I,  X.,  know 
my  place,  a  height  of  wisdom  attained  by  few.  What- 


IlS  FIRESIDE    TRAVELS. 

ever  you  may  think,  I  do  not  see  that  currant  jelly, 
nor  that  preserved  grape.  Especially,  a  kind  Provi 
dence  has  made  me  blind  to  bowls  of  white  sugar,  and 
deaf  to  the  pop  of  champagne  corks.  It  is  much  that 
a  merciful  compensation  gives  me  a  sense  of  the 
dingier  hue  of  Havana,  and  the  muddier  gurgle  of 
beer.  Are  there  potted  meats?  My  physician  has 
ordered  me  three  pounds  of  minced  salt-junk  at  every 
meal."  There  is  such  a  thing,  you  know,  as  a  ship's 
husband :  X.  is  the  ship's  poor  relation. 

As  I  have  said,  he  takes  also  a  below-the-white- 
sugar  interest  in  the  jokes,  laughing  by  precise  point 
of  compass,  just  as  he  would  lay  the  ship's  course,  all 
yawing  being  out  of  the  question  with  his  scrupulous 
decorum  at  the  helm.  Once  or  twice,  I  have  got  the 
better  of  him,  and  touched  him  off  into  a  kind  of  com 
promised  explosion,  like  that  of  damp  fireworks,  that 
splutter  and  simmer  a  little,  and  then  go  out  with  pain 
ful  slowness  and  occasional  relapses.  But  his  fuse 
is  always  of  the  unwillingest,  and  you  must  blow  your 
match,  and  touch  him  off  again  and  again  with  the 
same  joke.  Or  rather,  you  must  magnetize  him 
many  times  to  get  him  en  rapport  with  a  jest.  This 
once  accomplished,  you  have  him,  and  one  bit  of  fun 
will  last  the  whole  voyage.  He  prefers  those  of  one 
syllable,  the  a-b  abs  of  humor.  The  gradual  fattening 
of  the  steward,  a  benevolent  mulatto  with  whiskers 
and  ear-rings,  who  looks  as  if  he  had  been  meant  for 
a  woman,  and  had  become  a  man  by  accident,  as  in 
some  of  those  stories  of  the  elder  physiologists,  is  an 
abiding  topic  of  humorous  comment  with  Mr.  X. 


IN    THE   MEDITERRANEAN.  1 19 

"That  'ere  stooard,"  he  says,  with  a  brown  grin  like 
what  you  might  fancy  on  the  face  of  a  serious  and  aged 
seal,  "'s  agittin'  as  fat 's  a  porpis.  He  was  as  thin  's 
a  shingle  when  he  come  aboord  last  v'yge.  Them 
trousis  '11  bust  yit.  He  don't  darst  take  'em  off 
nights,  for  the  whole  ship's  company  could  n't  git 
him  into  'em  agin."  And  then  he  turns  aside  to  enjoy 
the  intensity  of  his  emotion  by  himself,  and  you  hear 
at  intervals  low  rumblings,  an  indigestion  of  laughter. 
He  tells  me  of  St.  Elmo's  fires,  MarvelFs  corposants, 
though  with  him  the  original  corpos  santos  has  suf 
fered  a  sea  change,  and  turned  to  comepleasants, 
pledges  of  fme  weather.  I  shall  not  soon  find  a 
pleasanter  companion.  It  is  so  delightful  to  meet  a 
man  who  knows  just  what  you  do  not.  Nay,  I  think 
the  tired  mind  finds  something  in  plump  ignorance 
like  what  the  body  feels  in  cushiony  moss.  Talk  of 
the  sympathy  of  kindred  pursuits  !  It  is  the  sympathy 
of  the  upper  and  nether  millstones,  both  forever  grind 
ing  the  same  grist,  and  wearing  each  other  smooth. 
One  has  not  far  to  seek  for  book-nature,  artist- 
nature,  every  variety  of  superinduced  nature,  in 
short,  but  genuine  human  nature  is  hard  to  find. 
And  how  good  it  is!  Wholesome  as  a  potato,  fit 
company  for  any  dish.  The  freemasonry  of  culti 
vated  men  is  agreeable,  but  artificial,  and  I  like 
better  the  natural  grip  with  which  manhood  recog 
nizes  manhood. 

X.  has  one  good  story,  and  with  that  I  leave  him, 
wishing  him  with  all  my  heart  that  little  inland  farm 
at  last  which  is  his  calenture  as  he  paces  the  windy 


I2O  FIRESIDE    7^ RAVELS. 

deck.  One  evening,  when  the  clouds  looked  wild 
and  whirling,  I  asked  X.  if  it  was  coming  on  to  blow. 
" No,  I  guess  not,"  said  he;  "bumby  the  moon '11 
be  up,  and  scoff  away  that  'ere  loose  stuff."  His 
intonation  set  the  phrase  " scoff  away"  in  quotation- 
marks  as  plain  as  print.  So  I  put  a  query  in  each 
eye,  and  he  went  on.  "TherJ  was  a  Dutch  cappen 
onct,  an'  his  mate  come  to  him  in  the  cabin,  where 
he  sot  takin'  his  schnapps,  an'  says,  '  Cappen,  it 's 
agittin'  thick,  an'  looks  kin'  o'  squally;  hed  n't  we  's 
good's  shorten  sail?'  'Gimmy  my  alminick,'  says 
the  cappen.  So  he  looks  at  it  a  spell,  an'  says  he, 
'  The  moon  's  due  in  less  'n  half  an  hour,  an'  she  '11 
scoff  away  ev'ythin'  clare  agin.'  So  the  mate  he  goes, 
an'  bumby  down  he  comes  agin,  an'  says,  'Cappen, 
this  'ere  's  the  allfiredest,  powerfullest  moon  't  ever 
you  did  see.  She  's  scoffed  away  the  maintogallants'l, 
an'  she  's  to  work  on  the  foretops'l  now.  Guess  you  'd 
better  look  in  the  alminick  agin,  an'  fin'  out  when  this 
moon  sets.'  So  the  cappen  thought  't  was  'bout 
time  to  go  on  deck.  Dreadful  slow  them  Dutch 
cappens  be."  And  X.  walked  away,  rumbling  in 
wardly,  like  the  rote  of  the  sea  heard  afar. 

And  so  we  arrived  at  Malta.  Did  you  ever  hear 
of  one  of  those  eating-houses,  where,  for  a  certain  fee, 
the  guest  has  the  right  to  make  one  thrust  with  a  fork 
into  a  huge  pot,  in  which  the  whole  dinner  is  bubbling, 
getting  perhaps  a  bit  of  boiled  meat,  or  a  potato,  or  else 
nothing  ?  Well,  when  the  great  caldron  of  war  is 
seething,  and  the  nations  stand  round  it  striving  to 
fish  out  something  to  their  purpose  from  the  mess, 


IN   THE  MEDITERRANEAN.  121 

Britannia  always  has  a  great  advantage  in  her  trident. 
Malta  is  one  of  the  titbits  she  has  impaled  with  that 
awful  implement.  I  was  not  sorry  for  it,  when  I 
reached  my  clean  inn,  with  its  kindly  English  land 
lady. 


ITALY. 

THF  impulse  which  sent  the  Edelmann  Storg  and 
me  to  Subiaco  was  given  something  like  two  thousand 
years  ago.  Had  we  not  seen  the  Ponte  Sant'  Antonio, 
we  should  not  have  gone  to  Subiaco  at  this  particular 
time;  and  had  the  Romans  been  worse  masons,  or 
more  ignorant  of  hydrodynamics  than  they  were,  we 
should  never  have  seen  the  Ponte  Sant'  Antonio. 
But  first  we  went  to  Tivoli,  —  two  carriage-loads  of 
us,  a  very  agreeable  mixture  of  English,  Scotch,  and 
Yankees,  —  on  Tuesday,  the  2oth  April.  I  shall  not 
say  anything  about  Tivoli.  A  water-fall  in  type  is 
likely  to  be  a  trifle  stiffish.  Old  association  and 
modern  beauty;  nature  and  artifice;  worship  that 
has  passed  away  and  the  religion  that  abides  forever; 
the  green  gush  of  the  deeper  torrent  and  the  white 
evanescence  of  innumerable  cascades,  delicately  pal 
pitant  as  a  fall  of  northern  lights;  the  descendants 
of  Sabine  pigeons  flashing  up  to  immemorial  dove 
cots,  for  centuries  inaccessible  to  man,  trooping  with 
noisy  rooks  and  daws :  the  fitful  roar  and  the  silently 
hovering  iris,  which,  borne  by  the  wind  across  the 
face  of  the  cliff,  transmutes  the  travertine  to  momen 
tary  opal,  and  whose  dimmer  ghost  haunts  the  moon 
light,  —  as  well  attempt  to  describe  to  a  Papuan 
savage  that  wondrous  ode  of  Wordsworth  which 
rouses  and  stirs  in  the  soul  all  its  dormant  instincts 

122 


ITALY.  123 

of  resurrection  as  with  a  sound  of  the  last  trumpet. 
No,  it  is  impossible.  Even  Byron's  pump  sucks 
sometimes,  and  gives  an  unpleasant  dry  wheeze,  es 
pecially,  it  seems  to  me,  at  Terni.  It  is  guide-book 
poetry,  enthusiasm  manufactured  by  the  yard,  which 
the  hurried  traveller  (John  and  Jonathan  are  always 
in  a  hurry  when  they  turn  peripatetics)  puts  on  when 
he  has  not  a  rag  of  private  imagination  to  cover  his 
nakedness  withal.  It  must  be  a  queer  kind  of  love 
that  could  " watch  madness  with  unalterable  mien," 
when  the  patient,  whom  any  competent  physician 
would  have  ordered  into  a  strait-waistcoat  long  ago, 
has  shivered  himself  to  powder  down  a  precipice. 
But  there  is  no  madness  in  the  matter.  Velino  goes 
over  in  his  full  senses,  and  knows  perfectly  well  that 
he  shall  not  be  hurt,  that  his  broken  fragments  will 
reunite  more  glibly  than  the  head  and  neck  of  Orrilo. 
He  leaps  exultant,  as  to  his  proper  doom  and  fulfil 
ment,  and  out  of  the  mere  waste  and  spray  of  his  glory 
the  god  of  sunshine  and  song  builds  over  the  crown 
ing  moment  of  his  destiny  a  triumphal  arch  beyond 
the  reach  of  time  and  pf  decay.  But  Milton  is  the 
only  man  who  has  got  much  poetry  out  of  a  cataract, 

—  and  that  was  a  cataract  in  his  eye. 

The  first  day  we  made  the  Giro,  coming  back  to  a 
merry  dinner  at  the  Sibilla  in  the  evening.  Then  we 
had  some  special  tea,  —  for  the  Italians  think  tea- 
drinking  the  chief  religious  observance  of  the  Inglesi, 

—  and  then  we  had  fifteen  pauls'  worth  of  illumina 
tion,  which  wrought  a  sudden  change  in  the  scenery, 
like  those  that  seem  so  matter-of-course  in  dreams, 


124  FIRESIDE    TRAVELS. 

turning  the  Claude  we  had  seen  in  the  morning  into  a 
kind  of  Piranesi-Rembrandt.  The  illumination,  by 
the  way,  which  had  been  prefigured  to  us  by  the  en 
thusiastic  Italian  who  conducted  it  as  something 
second  only  to  the  Girandola,  turned  out  to  be  one 
blue-light,  and  two  armfuls  of  straw. 

The  Edelmann  Storg  is  not  fond  of  pedestrian 
locomotion,  —  nay,  I  have  even  sometimes  thought 
that  he  looked  upon  the  invention  of  legs  as  a  private 
and  personal  wrong  done  to  himself.  I  am  quite  sure 
that  he  inwardly  believes  them  to  have  been  a  conse 
quence  of  the  fall,  and  that  the  happier  Pre-Adam- 
ites  were  monopodes,  and  incapable  of  any  but  a 
vehicular  progression.  A  carriage,  with  horses  and 
driver  complete,  he  takes  to  be  as  simple  a  production 
of  nature  as  a  potato.  But  he  is  fond  of  sketching^ 
and  after  breakfast,  on  the  beautiful  morning  of  Wed 
nesday,  the  2ist,  I  persuaded  him  to  walk  out  a  mile 
or  two  and  see  a  fragment  of  aqueduct  ruin.  It  is  a 
single  glorious  arch,  buttressing  the  mountain -side 
upon  the  edge  of  a  sharp  descent  to  the  valley  of  the 
Anio.  The  old  road  to  Subiaco  passes  under  it,  and 
it  is  crowned  by  a  crumbling  tower  built  in  the  Mid 
dle  Ages  (whenever  that  was)  against  the  Gaetani. 
While  Storg  sketched,  I  clambered.  Below  you, 
where  the  valley  widens  greenly  toward  other  moun 
tains,  which  the  ripe  Italian  air  distances  with  a 
bloom  like  that  on  unplucked  grapes,  are  more  arches, 
ossified  arteries  of  what  was  once  the  heart  of  the 
world.  Storg's  sketch  was  highly  approved  of  by 
Leopoldo,  our  guide,  and  by  three  or  four  peasants, 


ITALY.  125 

who,  being  on  their  way  to  their  morning's  work  in  the 
fields,  had,  of  course,  nothing  in  particular  to  do,  and 
stopped  to  see  us  see  the  ruin.  Any  one  who  has  re 
marked  how  grandly  the  Romans  do  nothing  will  be 
slow  to  believe  them  an  effete  race.  Their  style  is 
as  the  colossal  to  all  other,  and  the  name  of  Eternal 
City  fits  Rome  also,  because  time  is  of  no  account 
in  it.  The  Roman  always  waits  as  if  he  could  afford 
it  amply,  and  the  slow  centuries  move  quite  fast 
enough  for  him.  Time  is  to  other  races  the  field  of  a 
task-master,  which  they  must  painfully  till;  but  to 
the  Roman  it  is  an  entailed  estate,  which  he  enjoys 
and  will  transmit.  The  Neapolitan's  laziness  is  that 
of  a  loafer;  the  Roman's  is  that  of  a  noble.  The  poor 
Anglo-Saxon  must  count  his  hours,  and  look  twice  at 
his  small  change  of  quarters  and  minutes;  but  the 
Roman  spends  from  a  purse  of  Fortunatus.  His 
piccolo  quarto  (Tor a  is  like  his  grosso,  a  huge  piece  of 
copper,  big  enough  for  a  shield,  which  stands  only 
for  a  half-dime  of  our  money.  We  poor  fools  of  time 
always  hurry  as  if  we  were  the  last  type  of  man,  the 
full  stop  with  which  Fate  was  closing  the  Colophon 
of  her  volume,  —  as  if  we  had  just  read  in  our  news 
paper,  as  we  do  of  the  banks  on  holidays,  IST  The 
world  will  close  to-day  at  twelve  o'clock,  an  hour 
earlier  than  usual.  But  the  Roman  is  still  an  Ancient, 
with  a  vast  future  before  him  to  tame  and  occupy. 
He  and  his  ox  and  his  plough  are  just  as  they  were  in 
Virgil's  time  or  Ennius's.  We  beat  him  in  many 
things;  but  in  the  impregnable  fastness  of  his  great 
rich  nature  he  defies  us. 


126  FIRESIDE    TRAVELS. 

We  got  back  to  Tivoli,  —  Storg  affirming  that  he 
had  walked  fifteen  miles.  We  saw  the  Temple  of 
Cough,  which  is  not  the  Temple  of  Cough,  though  it 
might  have  been  a  votive  structure  put  up  by  some 
Tiburtinc  Dr.  Wistar.  We  saw  the  villa  of  Mecaenas, 
which  is  -'iijt  the  villa  of  Mecaenas,  and  other  equally 
satisfactory  antiquities.  All  our  English  friends 
sketched  the  Citadel,  of  course,  and  one  enthusiast 
attempted  a  likeness  of  the  fall,  which  I  unhappily 
mistook  afterward  for  a  semblance  of  the  tail  of  one 
of  the  horses  on  the  Monte  Cavallo.  Then  we  went 
to  the  Villa  d'  Este,  famous  on  Ariosto's  account,  — 
and  which  Ariosto  never  saw.  But  the  laurels  were 
worthy  to  have  made  a  chaplet  for  him,  and  the 
cypresses  and  the  views  were  as  fine  as  if  he  had  seen 
them  every  day  of  his  life. 

Perhaps  something  I  learned  in  going  to  see  one  of 
the  gates  of  the  town  is  more  to  the  purpose,  and  may 
assist  one  in  erecting  the  horoscope  of  Italia  Unita. 
When  Leopoldo  first  proposed  to  drag  me  through 
the  mud  to  view  this  interesting  piece  of  architecture, 
I  demurred.  But  as  he  was  very  earnest  about  it,  and 
as  one  seldom  fails  getting  at  a  bit  of  character  by  sub 
mitting  to  one's  guide,  I  yielded.  Arrived  at  the  spot, 
he  put  me  at  the  best  point  of  view,  and  said,  — 

"Behold,  Lordship!" 

"I  see  nothing  out  of  the  common,"  said  I. 

"  Lordship  is  kind  enough  here  to  look  at  a  gate, 
the  like  of  which  exists  not  in  all  Italy,  nay,  in  the 
whole  world,  —  I  speak  not  of  England,"  for  he 
thought  me  an  Inglese. 


ITALY.  127 

"I  am  not  blind,  Leopoldo  ;  where  is  the 
miracle?" 

"Here  we  dammed  up  the  waters  of  the  Anio,  first 
by  artifice  conducted  to  this  spot,  and,  letting  them 
out  upon  the  Romans,  who  stood  besieging  the  town, 
drowned  almost  a  whole  army  of  them.  (Lordship 
conceives?)  They  suspected  nothing  till  they  found 
themselves  all  torn  to  pieces  at  the  foot  of  the  hill 
yonder.  (Lordship  conceives?)  Eh!  per  Bacco !  we 
watered  their  porridge  for  them." 

Leopoldo  used  we  as  Lord  Buchan  did  /,  meaning 
any  of  his  ancestors. 

"But  tell  me  a  little,  Leopoldo,  how  many  years  is 
it  since  this  happened?" 

"Non  saprei,  signorla;  it  was  in  the  antiquest 
times,  certainly;  but  the  Romans  never  come  to  our 
Fair,  that  we  don't  have  blows  about  it,  and  perhaps  a 
stab  or  two.  Lordship  understands?*' 

I  was  quite  repaid  for  my  pilgrimage.  I  think  I 
understand  Italian  politics  better  for  hearing  Leo 
poldo  speak  of  the  Romans,  whose  great  dome  is  in 
full  sight  of  Tivoli,  as  a  foreign  nation.  But  what 
perennial  boyhood  the  whole  story  indicates ! 

Storg's  sketch  of  the  morning's  ruin  was  so  success 
ful  that  I  seduced  him  into  a  new  expedition  to  the 
Ponte  Sant'  Antonio,  another  aqueduct  arch  about 
eight  miles  off.  This  was  for  the  afternoon,  and  I 
succeeded  the  more  easily,  as  we  were  to  go  on  horse 
back.  So  I  told  Leopoldo  to  be  at  the  gate  of  the 
Villa  of  Hadrian,  at  three  o'clock,  with  three  horses. 
Leopoldo's  face,  when  I  said  three,  was  worth  seeing; 


128  FIRESIDE    TRAVELS. 

for  the  poor  fellow  had  counted  on  nothing  more  than 
trotting  beside  our  horses  for  sixteen  miles,  and  getting 
half  a  dollar  in  the  evening.  Between  doubt  and 
hope,  his  face  seemed  to  exude  a  kind  of  oil,  which 
made  it  shine  externally,  after  having  first  lubricated 
all  the  muscles  inwardly. 

"With  three  horses,  Lordship?" 

"Yes,  three." 

"Lordship  is  very  sagacious.  With  three  horses 
they  go  much  quicker.  It  is  finished,  then,  and  they 
will  have  the  kindness  to  find  me  at  the  gate  with  the 
beasts,  at  three  o'clock  precisely." 

Leopoldo  and  I  had  compromised  upon  the  term 
"Lordship."  He  had  found  me  in  the  morning  cele 
brating  due  rites  before  the  Sibyl's  Temple  with  strange 
incense  of  the  nicotian  herb,  and  had  marked  me  for 
his  prey.  At  the  very  high  tide  of  sentiment,  when 
the  traveller  lies  with  oyster-like  openness  in  the  soft 
ooze  of  reverie,  do  these  parasitic  crabs,  the  ciceroni, 
insert  themselves  as  his  inseparable  bosom  companions. 
Unhappy  bivalve,  lying  so  softly  between  thy  two 
shells,  of  the  actual  and  the  possible,  the  one  sustain 
ing,  the  other  widening  above  thee,  till,  oblivious  of 
native  mud,  thou  fanciest  thyself  a  proper  citizen  only 
of  the  illimitable  ocean  which  floods  thee,  —  there  is 
no  escape !  Vain  are  thy  poor  crustaceous  efforts  at 
self -isolation.  The  foe  henceforth  is  a  part  of  thy 
consciousness,  thy  landscape,  and  thyself,  happy  only 
if  that  irritation  breed  in  thee  the  pearl  of  patience 
and  of  voluntary  abstraction. 

"Excellency  wants  a  guide,  very  experienced,  who 


ITALY.  129 

has  conducted  with  great  mutual  satisfaction  many  of 
his  noble  compatriots." 

Puff,  puff,  and  an  attempt  at  looking  as  if  I  did  not 
see  him. 

''Excellency  will  deign  to  look  at  my  book  of  testi 
monials.  When  we  return,  Excellency  will  add  his 
own." 

Puff,  puff. 

" Excellency  regards  the  cascade,  praceps  Anioy  as 
the  good  Horatius  called  it." 

I  thought  of  the  dissolve  jrigus  of  the  landlord  in 
Roderick  Random,  and  could  not  help  smiling.  Leo- 
poldo  saw  his  advantage. 

"  Excellency  will  find  Leopoldo,  when  he  shall 
choose  to  be  ready." 

"But  I  will  positively  not  be  called  Excellency.  I 
am  not  an  ambassador,  nor  a  very  eminent  Christian, 
and  the  phrase  annoys  me." 

"To  be  sure,  Excell —  Lordship." 

"I  am  an  American." 

"Certainly,  an  American,  Lordship,"  —  as  if  that 
settled  the  matter  entirely.  If  I  had  told  him  I  was  a 
Caffre,  it  would  have  been  just  as  clear  to  him.  He 
surrendered  the  "Excellency,"  but  on  general  prin 
ciples  of  human  nature,  I  suppose,  would  not  come  a 
step  lower  than  "Lordship."  So  we  compromised  on 
that.  —  P.S.  It  is  wonderful  how  soon  a  republican 
ear  reconciles  itself  with  syllables  of  this  description. 
I  think  citizen  would  find  greater  difficulties  in  the 
way  of  its  naturalization,  and  as  for  brother  —  ah ! 
well,  in  a  Christian  sense,  certainly. 


I3O  FIRESIDE    TRAVELS. 

Three  o'clock  found  us  at  the  Villa  of  Hadrian. 
We  had  explored  that  incomparable  ruin,  and  conse 
crated  it,  in  the  Homeric  and  Anglo-Saxon  manner,  by 
eating  and  drinking.  Some  of  us  sat  in  the  shadow 
of  one  of  the  great  walls,  fitter  for  a  city  than  a  palace, 
over  which  a  Nile  of  ivy,  gushing  from  one  narrow 
source,  spread  itself  in  widening  inundations.  A 
happy  few  listened  to  stories  of  Bagdad  from  Mrs. 

— ,  whose  silver  hair  gleamed,  a  palpable  anachro 
nism,  like  a  snow-fall  in  May,  over  that  ever  youthful 
face,  where  the  few  sadder  lines  seemed  but  the  signa 
ture  of  Age  to  a  deed  of  quitclaim  and  release.  Dear 
Tito,  that  exemplary  traveller  who  never  lost  a  day, 
had  come  back  from  renewed  explorations,  convinced 
by  the  eloquent  custode  that  Serapeimuw&s  the  name 
of  an  officer  in  the  Praetorian  Guard.  I  was  explain 
ing,  in  addition,  that  Naumachia,  in  the  Greek  tongue, 
signified  a  place  artificially  drained,  when  the  horses 
were  announced. 

This  put  me  to  reflection.  I  felt,  perhaps,  a  little 
as  Mazeprja  must,  when  told  that  his  steed  was  at  the 
door.  For  several  years  I  had  not  been  on  the  back 
of  a  horse,  and  was  it  not  more  than  likely  that  these 
mountains  might  produce  a  yet  more  refractory  breed 
of  these  ferocious  animals  than  common  ?  Who  could 
tell  the  effect  of  grazing  on  a  volcanic  soil  like  that 
hereabout  ?  I  had  vague  recollections  that  the  saddle 
nullified  the  laws  governing  the  impulsion  of  inert 
bodies,  exacerbating  the  centrifugal  forces  into  a 
virulent  activity,  and  proportionably  narcotizing  the 
centripetal.  The  phrase  ratio  proportioned  to  the 


ITAL  Y.  131 

squares  oj  the  distances  impressed  me  with  an  awe 
which  explained  to  me  how  the  laws  of  nature  had 
been  of  old  personified  and  worshipped.  Meditating 
these  things,  I  walked  with  a  cheerful  aspect  to 
the  gate,  where  my  saddled  and  bridled  martyrdom 
awaited  me. 

"Eocomiqua/"  said  Leopoldo,  hilariously.  "Gen 
tlemen  will  be  good  enough  to  select  from  the  three 
best  beasts  in  Tivoli." 

"O,  this  one  will  serve  me  as  well  as  any,"  said  I, 
with  an  air  of  indifference,  much  as  I  have  seen  a 
gentleman  help  himself  inadvertently  to  the  best 
peach  in  the  dish.  I  am  not  more  selfish  than  becomes 
a  Christian  of  the  nineteenth  century,  but  I  looked 
on  this  as  a  clear  case  of  tabula  in  naufragio,  and  had 
noticed  that  the  animal  in  question  had  that  tremulous 
droop  of  the  lower  lip  which  indicates  senility,  and 
the  abdication  of  the  wilder  propensities.  Moreover, 
he  was  the  only  one  provided  with  a  curb  bit,  or  rather 
with  two  huge  iron  levers  which  might  almost  have 
served  ^rrchimedes  for  his  problem.  Our  saddles 
were  flat /cushions  covered  with  leather,  brought  by 
years  of  iriction  to  the  highest  state  of  polish.  In 
stead  of  a  pommel,  a  perpendicular  stake,  about  ten 
inches  high,  rose  in  front,  which,  in  case  of  a  stumble, 
would  save  one's  brains,  at  the  risk  of  certain  eviscera 
tion.  Behind,  a  glary  slope  invited  me  constantly  to 
slide  over  the  horse's  tail.  The  selfish  prudence  of  my 
choice  had  well-nigh  proved  the  death  of  me,  for  this 
poor  old  brute,  with  that  anxiety  to  oblige  a  jorestiero 
which  characterizes  everybody  here,  could  never  make 


132  FIRESIDE    TRAVELS. 

up  his  mind  which  of  his  four  paces  (and  he  had  the 
rudiments  of  four  —  walk,  trot,  rack,  and  gallop) 
would  be  most  agreeable  to  me.  The  period  of  tran 
sition  is  always  unpleasant,  and  it  was  all  transition. 
He  treated  me  to  a  hodge-podge  of  all  his  several  gaits 
at  once.  Saint  Vitus  was  the  only  patron  saint  I  could 
think  of.  My  head  jerked  one  way,  my  body  another, 
while  each  of  my  legs  became  a  pendulum  vibrating 
furiously,  one  always  forward  while  the  other  was 
back,  so  that  I  had  all  the  appearance  and  all  the 
labor  of  going  afoot,  and  at  the  same  time  was  bumped 
within  an  inch  of  my  life.  Waterton's  alligator  was 
nothing  to  it ;  it  was  like  riding  a  hard-trotting  arma 
dillo  bare-backed.  There  is  a  species  of  equitation 
peculiar  to  our  native  land,  in  which  a  rail  from  the 
nearest  fence,  with  no  preliminary  incantation  of 
Horse  and  hattock  !  is  converted  into  a  steed,  and  this 
alone  may  stand  the  comparison.  Storg  in  the  mean 
while  was  triumphantly  taking  the  lead,  his  trousers 
working  up  very  pleasantly  above  his  knees,  an  insur 
rectionary  movement  which  I  also  was  unable  to  sup 
press  in  my  own.  I  could  bear  it  no  longer. 

"Le-e-o-o-p-o-o-o-l-l-l-d-d-o-o-o !"    jolted  I. 

"  Command,  Lordship ! "  and  we  both  came  to  a  stop. 

"It  is  necessary  that  we  change  horses  immediately, 
or  I  shall  be  jelly." 

"Certainly,  Lordship" ;  and  I  soon  had  the  pathetic 
satisfaction  of  seeing  him  subjected  to  all  the  excruci 
ating  experiments  that  had  been  tried  upon  myself. 
Fiat  experimentum  in  car  pore  vili,  thought  his  ex 
tempore  lordship,  Christopher  Sly,  to  himself. 


ITALY.  133 

Meanwhile  all  the  other  accessories  of  our  ride  were 
delicious.  It  was  a  clear,  cool  day,  and  we  soon  left 
the  high  road  for  a  bridle-path  along  the  side  of  the 
mountain,  among  gigantic  olive-trees,  said  to  be  five 
hundred  years  old,  and  which  had  certainly  employed 
all  their  time  in  getting  into  the  weirdest  and  wonder- 
fullest  shapes.  Clearly  in  this  green  commonwealth 
•(  there  was  no  heavy  roller  of  public  opinion  to  flatten 
all  character  to  a  lawn-like  uniformity.  Everything 
was  individual  and  eccentric.  And  there  was  some 
thing  fearfully  human,  too,  in  the  wildest  contortions. 
It  was  some  such  wood  that  gave  Dante  the  hint  of  his 
human  forest  in  the  seventh  circle,  and  I  should  have 
dreaded  to  break  a  twig,  lest  I  should  hear  that  voice 
complaining, 

"  Perch6  mi  scerpi  ? 
Non  hai  tu  spirto  di  pietate  alcuno  ?  " 

Our  path  lay  along  a  kind  of  terrace,  and  at  every 
opening  we  had  glimpses  of  the  billowy  Campagna, 
with  the  great  dome  bulging  from  its  rim,  while  on  our 
right,  changing  ever  as  we  rode,  the  Alban  mountain 
showed  us  some  new  grace  of  that  sweeping  outline 
peculiar  to  volcanoes.  At  intervals  the  substructions 
of  Roman  villas  would  crop  out  from  the  soil  like 
masses  of  rock,  and  deserving  to  rank  as  a  geological 
formation  by  themselves.  Indeed,  in  gazing  into  these 
dark  caverns,  one  does  not  think  of  man  more  than  at 
Staffa.  Nature  has  adopted  these  fragments  of  a  race 
who  were  dear  to  her.  She  has  not  suffered  these 
bones  of  the  great  Queen  to  lack  due  sepulchral  rites, 
but  has  flung  over  them  the  ceremonial  handfuls  of 


134  FIRESIDE    TRAVELS. 

earth,  and  every  year  carefully  renews  the  garlands  of 
memorial  flowers.  Nay,  if  what  they  say  in  Rome 
'be  true,  she  has  even  made  a  new  continent  of  the 
Colosseum,  and  given  it  a  flora  of  its  own. 

At  length,  descending  a  little,  we  passed  through 
farm-yards  and  cultivated  fields,  where,  from  Leo- 
poldo's  conversations  with  the  laborers,  we  discov 
ered  that  he  himself  did  not  know  the  way  for  which 
he  had  undertaken  to  be  guide.  However,  we  pres 
ently  came  to  our  ruin,  and  very  noble  it  was.  The 
aqueduct  had  here  been  carried  across  a  deep  gorge, 
and  over  the  little  brook  which  wimpled  along  below 
towered  an  arch,  as  a  bit  of  Shakespeare  bestrides 
the  exiguous  rill  of  a  discourse  which  it  was  intended 
to  ornament.  The  only  human  habitation  in  sight 
was  a  little  casetta  on  the  top  of  a  neighboring  hill. 
What  else  of  man's  work  could  be  seen  was  a  ruined 
castle  of  the  Middle  Ages,  and,  far  away,  upon  the 
horizon,  the  eternal  dome.  A  valley  in  the  moon 
could  scarce  have  been  lonelier,  could  scarce  have  sug 
gested  more  strongly  the  feeling  of  preteriteness  and 
extinction.  The  stream  below  did  not  seem  so  much 
to  sing  as  to  murmur  sadly,  Conclusum  est;  periisti! 
and  the  wind,  sighing  through  the  arch,  answered, 
Periisti  !  Nor  was  the  silence  of  Monte  Cavi  without 
meaning.  That  cup,  once  full  of  fiery  wine,  in  which 
it  pledged  Vesuvius  and  y^Etna  later  born,  was  brimmed 
with  innocent  water  now.  Adam  came  upon  the 
earth  too  late  to  see  the  glare  of  its  last  orgy,  lighting 
the  eyes  of  saurians  in  the  reedy  Campagna  below.  I 
almost  fancied  I  could  hear  a  voice  like  that  which  cried 


ITALY.  135 

to  the  Egyptian  pilot,  Great  Pan  is  dead!  I  was  look 
ing  into  the  dreary  socket  where  once  glowed  the  eye 
that  saw  the  whole  earth  vassal.  Surely,  this  was  the 
world's  autumn,  and  I  could  hear  the  feet  of  Time 
rustling  through  the  wreck  of  races  and  dynasties, 
cheap  and  inconsiderable  as  fallen  leaves. 

But  a  guide  is  not  engaged  to  lead  one  into  the 
world  of  imagination.  He  is  as  deadly  to  sentiment  as 
a  sniff  of  hartshorn.  His  position  is  a  false  one,  like 
that  of  the  critic,  who  is  supposed  to  know  everything, 
and  expends  himself  in  showing  that  he  does  not.  If 
you  should  ever  have  the  luck  to  attend  a  concert  of 
the  spheres,  under  the  protection  of  an  Italian  cicerone, 
he  will  expect  you  to  listen  to  him  rather  than  to  it. 
He  will  say:  "Ecco,  Signoria,  that  one  in  the  red 
mantle  is  Signer  Mars,  eh !  what  a  noblest  basso  is 
Signer  Mars!  but  nothing  (Lordship  understands?) 
to  what  Signer  Saturn  used  to  be,  (he  with  the  golden 
belt,  Signorla,)  only  his  voice  is  in  ruins  now,  — 
scarce  one  note  left  upon  another;  but  Lordship  can 
see  what  it  was  by  the  remains,  Roman  remains, 
Signorta,  Roman  remains,  the  work  of  giants.  (Lord 
ship  understands?)  They  make  no  such  voices  now. 
Certainly,  Signer  Jupiter  (with  the  yellow  tunic,  there) 
is  a  brave  artist  and  a  most  sincere  tenor;  but  since 
the  time  of  the  Republic"  (if  he  think  you  an  oscu- 
rante,  or  since  the  French,  if  he  suspects  you  of  being 
the  least  red}  "we  have  no  more  good  singing."  And 
so  on. 

It  is  a  well-known  fact  to  all  persons  who  are  in  the 
habit  of  climbing  Jacob's-ladders,  that,  if  any  one 


136  FIRESIDE    TRAVELS. 

speak  to  you  during  the  operation,  the  fabric  collapses, 
and  you  come  somewhat  uncomfortably  to  the  ground. 
One  can  be  hit  with  a  remark,  when  he  is  beyond  the 
reach  of  more  material  missiles.  Leopoldo  saw  by 
my  abstracted  manner  that  I  was  getting  away  from 
him,  and  I  was  the  only  victim  he  had  left,  for  Storg 
was  making  a  sketch  below.  So  he  hastened  to  fetch 
me  down  again. 

"Nero  built  this  arch,  Lordship."  (He  didn't, 
but  Nero  was  Leopoldo's  historical  scape-goat.) 
"Lordship  sees  the  dome?  he  will  deign  to  look  the 
least  little  to  the  left  hand.  Lordship  has  much  in 
telligence.  Well,  Nero  always  did  thus.  His  works 
always,  always,  had  Rome  in  view." 

He  had  already  shown  me  two  ruins,  which  he 
ascribed  equally  to  Nero,  and  which  could  only  have 
seen  Rome  by  looking  through  a  mountain.  How 
ever,  such  trifles  are  nothing  to  an  accomplished  guide. 

I  remembered  his  quoting  Horace  in  the  morning. 

"Do  you  understand  Latin,  Leopoldo?" 

"I  did  a  little  once,  Lordship.  I  went  to  the 
Jesuits'  school  at  Tivoli.  But  what  use  of  Latin  to  a 
poverino  like  me?" 

"Were  you  intended  for  the  church?  Why  did 
you  leave  the  school?" 

"Eh,  Lordship!"  and  one  of  those  shrugs  which 
might  mean  that  he  left  it  of  his  own  free  will,  or  that 
he  was  expelled  at  point  of  toe.  He  added  some  con 
temptuous  phrase  about  the  priests. 

"But,  Leopoldo,  you  are  a  good  Catholic?" 

"Eh,  Lordship,  who  knows?     A  man  is  no  blinder 


ITALY.  137 

for  being  poor,  —  nay,  hunger  sharpens  the  eyesight 
sometimes.  The  cardinals  (their  Eminences!)  tell 
us  that  it  is  good  to  be  poor,  and  that,  in  proportion 
as  we  lack  on  earth,  it  shall  be  made  up  to  us  in  Para 
dise.  Now,  if  the  cardinals  (their  Eminences !)  be 
lieve  what  they  preach,  why  do  they  want  to  ride  in 
such  handsome  carriages?" 

"But  are  there  many  who  think  as  you  do?" 

"Everybody,  Lordship,  but  a  few  women  and 
fools.  What  imports  it  what  the  fools  think?" 

An  immense  deal,  I  thought,  an  immense  deal; 
for  of  what  material  is  public  opinion  manufactured  ? 

"Do  you  ever  go  to  church?" 

"Once  a  year,  Lordship,  at  Easter,  to  mass  and 
confession." 

"Why  once  a  year?" 

"Because,  Lordship,  one  must  have  a  certificate 
from  the  priest..  One  might  be  sent  to  prison  else, 
and  one  had  rather  go  to  confession  than  to  jail.  Eh, 
Lordship,  it  is  a  porcheria" 

It  is  proper  to  add,  that  in  what  Leopoldo  said  of 
the  priests  he  was  not  speaking  of  his  old  masters,  the 
Jesuits.  One  never  hears  anything  in  Italy  against 
the  purity  of  their  lives,  or  their  learning  and  ability, 
though  much  against  their  unscrupulousness.  Nor 
will  any  one  who  has  ever  enjoyed  the  gentle  and 
dignified  hospitality  of  the  Benedictines  be  ready  to 
believe  any  evil  report  of  them. 

By  this  time  Storg  had  finished  his  sketch,  and  we 
remounted  our  grazing  steeds.  They  were  brisker 
as  soon  as  their  noses  were  turned  homeward,  and  we 


138  FIRESIDE    TRAVELS. 

did  the  eight  miles  back  in  an  hour.  The  setting  sun 
streamed  through  and  among  the  Michael  Angelesque 
olive-trunks,  and,  through  the  long  colonnade  of  the 
bridle-path,  fired  the  scarlet  waistcoats  and  bodices 
of  homeward  villagers,  or  was  sullenly  absorbed  in  the 
long  black  cassock  arid  flapped  hat  of  a  priest,  who 
courteously  saluted  the  strangers.  Sometimes  a  min 
gled  flock  of  sheep  and  goats  (as  if  they  had  walked 
out  of  one  of  Claude's  pictures)  followed  the  shepherd 
who,  satyr-like,  in  goat-skin  breeches,  sang  such  songs 
as  were  acceptable  before  Tubal  Cain  struck  out  the 
laws  of  musical  time  from  his  anvil.  The  peasant,  in 
his  ragged  brown  cloak,  or  with  blue  jacket  hanging 
from  the  left  shoulder,  still  strides  Romanly,  —  incedit 
rex,  —  and  his  eyes  have  a  placid  grandeur,  inherited 
from  those  which  watched  the  glittering  snake  of  the 
Triumph,  as  it  undulated  along  the  Via  Sacra.  By 
his  side  moves  with  equal  pace  his  woman-porter,  the 
caryatid  of  a  vast  entablature  of  household-stuff,  and 
learning  in  that  harsh  school  a  sinuous  poise  of  body 
and  a  security  of  step  beyond  the  highest  snatch  ot  the 
posture-master. 

As  we  drew  near  Tivoli  the  earth  was  fast  swinging 
into  shadow.  The  darkening  Campagna,  climbing 
the  sides  of  the  nearer  Monticelli  in  a  gray  belt  of 
olive-spray,  rolled  on  towards  the  blue  island  of 
Soracte,  behind  which  we  lost  the  sun.  Yes,  we  had 
lost  the  sun;  but  in  the  wide  chimney  of  the  largest 
room  at  the  Sibilla  there  danced  madly,  crackling 
with  ilex  and  laurel,  a  bright  ambassador  from  Sun- 
land,  Monsieur  Le  Feu,  no  pinchbeck  substitute  for 


ITAL  Y.  I  39 

his  royal  master.  As  we  drew  our  chairs  up,  after 
the  dinner  due  to  Leopoldo's  forethought,  "Behold," 
said  I,  "the  Resident  of  the  great  king  near  the  court 
of  our  (this-day-created)  Hogan  Moganships." 

We  sat  looking  into  the  fire,  as  it  wavered  from 
shining  shape  to  shape  of  unearthliest  fantasy,  and 
both  of  us,  no  doubt,  making  out  old  faces  among  the 
embers,  for  we  both  said  together,  "Let  us  talk  of  old 
times." 

"To  the  small  hours,"  said  the  Edelmann;  "and 
instead  of  blundering  off  to  Torneo  to  intrude  chatter- 
ingly  upon  the  midnight  privacy  of  Apollo,  let  us  pro 
mote  the  fire,  there,  to  the  rank  of  sun  by  brevet,  and 
have  a  kind  of  undress  rehearsal  of  those  night 
wanderings  of  his  here  upon  the  ample  stage  of  the 
hearth." 

So  we  went  through  the  whole  catalogue  of  Do  you 
remembers?  and  laughed  at  all  the  old  stories,  so 
dreary  to  an  outsider.  Then  we  grew  pensive,  and 
talked  of  the  empty  sockets  in  that  golden  band  of 
our  young  friendship,  —  of  S.,  with  Grecian  front, 
but  unsevere,  and  Saxon  M.,  to  whom  laughter  wcs 
as  natural  as  for  a  brook  to  ripple. 

But  Leopoldo  had  not  done  with  us.  We  were 
to  get  back  to  Rome  in  the  morning,  and  to  that  end 
must  make  a  treaty  with  the  company  which  ran  the 
Tivoli  diligence,  the  next  day  not  being  the  regular 
period  of  departure  for  that  prodigious  structure. 
We  had  given  Leopoldo  twice  his  fee,  and,  setting  a 
mean  value  upon  our  capacities  in  proportion,  he  ex 
pected  to  bag  a  neat  percentage  on  our  bargain. 


140  FIRESIDE    TRAVELS. 

\ 

Alas !  he  had  made  a  false  estimate  of  the  Anglo- 
Norman  mind,  which,  capable  of  generosity  as  a  com 
pliment  to  itself,  will  stickle  for  the  dust  in  the  balance 
in  a  matter  of  business,  and  would  blush  at  being  done 
by  Mercury  himself. 

Accordingly,  at  about  nine  o'clock  there  came  a 
knock  at  the  door,  and,  answering  our  Favorisca!  in 
stalked  Leopoldo,  gravely  followed  by  the  two  com 
missioners  of  the  company. 

"  Behold  me  returned,  Lordship,  and  these  men  are 
the  Vetturini." 

Why  is  it  that  men  who  have  to  do  with  horses  are 
the  sam?  all  over  Christendom?  Is  it  that  they 
acquire  equine  characteristics,  or  that  this  particular 
mystery  is  magnetic  to  certain  sorts  of  men?  Cer 
tainly  they  are  marked  unmistakably,  and  these  two 
worthies  would  have  looked  perfectly  natural  in  York 
shire  or  Vermont.  They  were  just  alike,  —  jor- 
temque  Gyan,  jortemque  Cloanthum,  —  and  you  could 
not  split  an  epithet  between  them.  Simultaneously 
they  threw  back  their  large  overcoats,  and  displayed 
spheroidal  figures,  over  which  the  strongly  pronounced 
stripes  of  their  plaided  waistcoats  ran  like  parallels 
of  latitude  and  longitude  over  a  globe.  Simul 
taneously  they  took  off  their  hats  and  said,  "Your 
servant,  gentlemen."  In  Italy  it  is  always  necessary 
to  make  a  combinazione  beforehand  about  even  the 
most  customary  matters,  for  there  is  no  fixed  highest 
price  for  anything.  For  a  minute  or  two  we  stood 
reckoning  each  other's  forces.  Then  I  opened  the 
first  trench  with  the  usual,  "How  much  do  you  wish 


ITALY.  141 

for  carrying  us  to  Rome  at  half  past  seven  to-morrow 
morning?" 

The  enemy  glanced  one  at  the  other,  and  the 
result  of  this  ocular  witenagemot  was  that  one  said, 
"Four  scudi,  gentlemen." 

The  Edelmann  Storg  took  his  cigar  from  his  mouth 
in  order  to  whistle,  and  made  a  rather  indecorous 
allusion  to  four  gentlemen  in  the  diplomatic  service 
of  his  Majesty,  the  Prince  of  the  Powers  of  the  Air. 

"Whe-ew!   quattro  diavoli!"    said  he. 

"Maceht!"  exclaimed  I,  attempting  a  flank  move 
ment,  "I  had  rather  go  on  foot!"  and  threw  as  much 
horror  into  my  face  as  if  a  proposition  had  been  made 
to  me  to  commit  robbery,  murder,  and  arson  all 
together. 

"For  less  than  three  scudi  and  a  half  the  diligence 
parts  not  from  Tivoli  at  an  extraordinary  hour," 
said  the  stout  man,  with  an  imperturbable  gravity, 
intended  to  mask  his  retreat,  and  to  make  it  seem  that 
he  was  making  the  same  proposal  as  at  first. 

Storg  saw  that  they  wavered,  and  opened  upon 
them  with  his  flying  artillery  of  sarcasm. 

"Do  you  take  us  for  Inglcsi?  We  are  very  well 
here,  and  will  stay  at  the  Sibilla,"  he  sniffed  scornfully. 

"How  much  will  Lordship  give?"  (This  was 
showing  the  white  feather.) 

"Fifteen  pauls,"  (a  scudo  and  a  half,)  "buonamano 
included." 

"It  is  impossible,  gentlemen;  for  less  than  two 
scudi  and  a  half  the  diligence  parts  not  from  Tivoli  at 
an  extraordinary  hour." 


142  FIRESIDE    TRAVELS. 

"Fifteen  pauls." 

"Will  Lordship  give  two  scudi?"  (with  a  slight 
flavor  of  mendicancy.) 

"Fifteen  pauls,"  (growing  firm  as  we  saw  them 
waver.) 

"Then,  gentlemen,  it  is  all  over;  it  is  impossible, 
gentlemen." 

"Very  good;  a  pleasant  evening  to  you  !"  and  they 
bowed  themselves  out. 

As  soon  as  the  door  closed  behind  them,  Leopoldo, 
who  had  looked  on  in  more  and  more  anxious  silence 
as  the  chance  of  plunder  was  whittled  slimmer  and 
slimmer  by  the  sharp  edges  of  the  parley,  saw  instantly 
that  it  was  for  his  interest  to  turn  state's  evidence 
against  his  accomplices. 

"They  will  be  back  in  a  moment,"  he  said  know 
ingly,  as  if  he  had  been  of  our  side  all  along. 

"Of  course;  we  are  aware  of  that."  -—It  is  always 
prudent  to  be  aware  of  everything  in  travelling. 

And,  sure  enough,  in  five  minutes  re-enter  the  stout 
men,  as  gravely  as  if  everything  had  been  thoroughly 
settled,  and  ask  respectfully  at  what  hour  we  would 
have  the  diligence. 

This  will  serve  as  a  specimen  of  Italian  bargain- 
making.  They  do  not  feel  happy  if  they  get  their 
first  price.  So  easy  a  victory  makes  them  sorry  they 
,  had  not  asked  twice  as  much,  and,  besides,  they  love 
the  excitement  of  the  contest.  I  have  seen  as  much 
debate  over  a  little  earthen  pot  (value  two  cents)  on 
the  Ponte  Vccchio,  in  Florence,  as  would  have  served 
for  an  operation  of  millions  in  the  funds,  the  demand 


ITALY.  143 

and  the  offer  alternating  so  rapidly  that  the  litigants 
might  be  supposed  to  be  playing  the  ancient  game 
of  morra.  It  is  a  part  of  the  universal  fondness  for 
gaming,  and  lotteries.  An  English  gentleman  once 
asked  his  Italian  courier  how  large  a  percentage  he 
made  on  all  of  his  employer's  money  which  passed 
through  his  hands.  " About  five  per  cent;  some 
times  more,  sometimes  less,"  was  the  answer.  "Well, 
I  will  add  that  to  your  salary,  in  order  that  I  maybe 
rid  of  this  uncomfortable  feeling  of  being  cheated." 
The  courier  mused  a  moment,  and  said,  "But  no,  sir, 
I  should  not  be  happy ;  then  it  would  not  be  sometimes 
more,  sometimes  less,  and  I  should  miss  the  excite 
ment  of  the  game." 

22^.  —  This  morning  the  diligence  was  at  the  door 
punctually,  and,  taking  our  seats  in  the  coupe,  we  bade 
farewell  to  La  Sibilla.  But  first  we  ran  back  for  a 
parting  glimpse  at  the  water-fall.  These  last  looks, 
like  lovers'  last  kisses,  are  nouns  of  multitude,  and 
presently  the  povero  stalliere,  signori,  waited  upon  us, 
cap  in  hand,  telling  us  that  the  vetturino  was  impa 
tient,  and  begging  for  drink -money  in  the  same 
breath.  Leopoldo  hovered  longingly  afar,  for  these 
vultures  respect  times  and  seasons,  and  while  one  is 
fleshing  his  beak  upon  the  foreign  prey,  the  others 
forbear.  The  passengers  in  the  diligence  were  not 
very  lively.  The  Romans  are  a  grave  people,  and 
more  so  than  ever  since  '49.  Of  course,  there  was 
one  priest  among  them.  There  always  is;  for  the 
mantis  religiosa  is  as  inevitable  to  these  public  con 
veyances  as  the  curculio  is  to  the  plum,  and  one  could 


144  FIRESIDE    TRAVELS. 

almost  fancy  that  they  were  bred  in  the  same  way,  — 
that  the  egg  was  inserted  when  the  vehicle  was  green, 
became  developed  as  it  ripened,  and  never  left  it  till 
it  dropped  withered  from  the  pole.  There  was  noth 
ing  noticeable  on  the  road  to  Rome,  except  the  strings 
of  pack-horses  and  mules  which  we  met  returning 
with  empty  lime-sacks  to  Tivoli,  whence  comes  the 
supply  of  Rome.  A  railroad  was  proposed,  but  the 
government  would  not  allow  it,  because  it  would  inter 
fere  with  this  carrying-trade,  and  wisely  granted 
instead  a  charter  for  a  road  to  Frascati,  where  there 
was  no  business  whatever  to  be  interfered  with. 
About  a  mile  of  this  is  built  in  a  style  worthy  of  ancient 
Rome ;  and  it  is  possible  that  eventually  another  mile 
may  be  accomplished,  for  some  half-dozen  laborers 
are  at  work  upon  it  with  wheelbarrows,  in  the  leisurely 
Roman  fashion.  If  it  is  ever  finished,  it  will  have 
nothing  to  carry  but  the  conviction  of  its  own  useless- 
ness.  A  railroad  has  been  proposed  to  Civita  Vecchia ; 
but  that  is  out  of  the  question  because  it  would  be 
profitable.  On  the  whole,  one  does  not  regret  the 
failure  of  these  schemes.  One  would  not  approach 
the  solitary  emotion  of  a  lifetime,  such  as  is  the  first 
|  sight  of  Rome,  at  the  rate  of  forty  miles  an  hour.  It 
j  is  better,  after  painfully  crawling  up  one  of  those  long 
paved  hills,  to  have  the  postilion  turn  in  his  saddle 
and,  pointing  with  his  whip,  (without  looking,  for  he 
knows  instinctively  where  it  is,)  say,  Ecco  San  Piclro  ! 
Then  you  look  tremblingly,  and  see  it  hovering  vision 
ary  on  the  horizon's  verge,  and  in  a  moment  you  are 
rattling  and  rumbling  and  wallowing  down  into  the 


ITALY.  145 

valley,  and  it  is  gone.  So  you  play  hide-and-seek 
with  it  all  the  rest  of  the  way,  and  have  time  to  con 
verse  with  your  sensations.  You  fancy  you  have  got 
used  to  it  at  last ;  but  from  the  next  hill-top,  lo,  there 
it  looms  again,  a  new  wonder,  and  you  do  not  feel 
sure  that  it  will  keep  its  tryst  till  you  find  yourself 
under  its  shadow.  The  Dome  is  to  Rome  what 
Vesuvius  is  to  Naples;  only  a  greater  wonder,  for 
Michael  Angelo  hung  it  there.  The  traveller  climbs 
it  as  he  would  a  mountain,  and  finds  the  dwellings 
of  men  high  up  on  its  sacred  cliffs.  It  has  its  annual 
eruption,  too,  at  Easter,  when  the  fire  trickles  and 
palpitates  down  its  mighty  shoulders,  seen  from  far- 
off  Tivoli.  —  No,  the  locomotive  is  less  impertinent 
at  Portici,  hailing  the  imprisoned  Titan  there  with  a 
kindred  shriek.  Let  it  not  vex  the  solemn  Roman 
ghosts,  or  the  nobly  desolate  Campagna,  with  whose 
solitudes  the  shattered  vertebrae  of  the  aqueducts  are 
in  truer  sympathy. 

24th.  —  To-day  our  journey  to  Subiaco  properly 
begins.  The  jocund  morning  had  called  the  beggars 
to  their  street -corners,  and  the  v/omen  to  the  win 
dows;  the  players  of  morra  (a  game  probably  as  old 
as  the  invention  of  fingers),  of  chuck-farthing,  and  of 
bowls,  had  cheerfully  begun  the  labors  of  the  day; 
the  plaintive  cries  of  the  chair-seaters,  frog-venders, 
and  certain  other  peripatetic  merchants,  the  meaning 
of  whose  vocal  advertisements  I  could  never  pene 
trate,  quaver  at  regular  intervals,  now  near  and  now 
far  away ;  a  solitary  Jew  with  a  sack  over  his  shoulder, 
and  who  never  is  seen  to  stop,  slouches  along,  every 


146  FIRESIDE    TRAVELS. 

now  and  then  croaking  a  penitential  Cenci!  as  if  he 
were  somehow  the  embodied  expiation  (by  some  post- 
Ovidian  metamorphosis)  of  that  darkest  Roman 
tragedy;  women  are  bargaining  for  lettuce  and 
endive;  the  slimy  Triton  in  the  Piazza  Barberina 
spatters  himself  with  vanishing  diamonds ;  a  peasant 
leads  an  ass  on  which  sits  the  mother  with  the  babe  in 
her  arms,  —  a  living  flight  into  Egypt ;  in  short,  the 
beautiful  spring  day  had  awakened  all  of  Rome  that 
can  awaken  yet  (for  the  ideal  Rome  waits  for  another 
morning),  when  we  rattled  along  in  our  carrettella  on 
the  way  to  Palestrina.  A  carrettella  is  to  the  per 
fected  vehicle,  as  the  coracle  to  the  steamship;  it  is 
the  first  crude  conception  of  a  wheeled  carriage. 
Doubtless  the  inventor  of  it  was  a  prodigious  genius 
in  his  day,  and  rode  proudly  in  it,  envied  by  the  more 
fortunate  pedestrian,  and  cushioned  by  his  own  in 
flated  imagination.  If  the  chariot  of  Achilles  were 
like  it,  then  was  Hector  happier  at  the  tail  than  the  son 
of  Thetis  on  the  box.  It  is  an  oblong  basket  upon 
two  wheels,  with  a  single  seat  rising  in  the  middle. 
We  had  not  jarred  over  a  hundred  yards  of  the  Quattro 
Fontane,  before  we  discovered  that  no  elastic  pro- 
pugnaculum  had  been  interposed  between  the  body 
and  the  axle,  so  that  we  sat,  as  it  were,  on  paving- 
stones,  mitigated  only  by  so  much  as  well-seasoned 
ilex  is  less  flinty-hearted  than  tujo  or  breccia.  If  there 
were  any  truth  in  the  theory  of  developments,  I  am 
certain  that  we  should  have  been  furnished  with  a 
pair  of  rudimentary  elliptical  springs,  at  least,  before 
half  our  day's  journey  was  over.  Howe\er,  as  one  of 


ITALY.  147 

those  happy  illustrations  of  ancient  manners,  which 
one  meets  with  so  often  here,  it  was  instructive;  for 
I  now  clearly  understand  that  it  was  not  merely  by 
reason  of  pomp  that  Hadrian  used  to  be  three  days 
in  getting  to  his  villa,  only  twelve  miles  off.  In  spite 
of  the  author  of  "Vestiges,"  Nature,  driven  to  ex 
tremities,  can  develop  no  more  easy  cushion  than  a 
blister,  and  no  doubt  treated  an  ancient  emperor  and 
a  modern  republican  with  severe  impartiality. 

It  was  difficult  to  talk  without  biting  one's  tongue; 
but  as  soon  as  we  had  got  fairly  beyond  the  gate,  and 
out  of  sight  of  the  last  red-legged  French  soldier,  and 
tightly-buttoned  doganiere,  our  driver  became  loqua 
cious. 

"I  am  a  good  Catholic,  — better  than  most,"  said 
he,  suddenly. 

"What  do  you  mean  by  that?" 

"Eh!  they  say  Saint  Peter  wrought  miracles,  and 
there  are  enough  who  don't  believe  it;  but  /  do. 
There  's  the  Barberini  Palace,  —  behold  one  miracle 
of  Saint  Peter !  There  's  the  Farnese,  —  behold 
another !  There  's  the  Borghcse,  —  behold  a  third  ! 
But  there  's  no  end  of  them.  No  saint,  nor  all  the 
saints  put  together,  ever  worked  so  many  wonders  as 
he;  and  then,  per  Bacco !  he  is  the  uncle  of  so  many 
folks,  —  why,  that 's  a  miracle  in  itself,  and  of  the 
greatest!" 

Presently  he  added :  "Do  you  know  how  we  shall  treat 
the  priests  when  we  make  our  next  revolution?  We 
shall  treat  them  as  they  treat  us,  and  that  is  after  the 
fashion  of  the  buffalo.  For  the  buffalo  is  not  content 


148  FIRESIDE    TRAVELS. 

with  getting  a  man  down,  but  after  that  he  gores  him 
and  thrusts  him,  always,  always,  as  if  he  wished  to 
cram  him  to  the  centre  of  the  earth.  Ah,  if  I  were  only 
keeper  of  hell-gate !  Not  a  rascal  of  them  all  should 
ever  get  out  into  purgatory  while  I  stood  at  the 
door!" 

We  remonstrated  a  little,  but  it  only  exasperated 
him  the  more. 

" Blood  of  Judas!  they  will  eat  nothing  else  than 
gold,  when  a  poor  fellow's  belly  is  as  empty  as  San 
Lorenzo  yonder.  They  '11  have  enough  of  it  one  of 
these  days  —  but  melted !  How  do  you  think  they 
will  like  it  for  soup?" 

Perhaps,  if  our  vehicle  had  been  blessed  with  springs 
our  vetturino  would  have  been  more  placable.  I  con 
fess  a  growing  moroseness  in  myself,  and  a  wander 
ing  speculation  or  two  as  to  the  possible  fate  of  the 
builder  of  our  chariot  in  the  next  world.  But  I  am 
more  and  more  persuaded  every  day,  that,  as  far  as 
the  popular  mind  is  concerned,  Romanism  is  a  dead 
thing  in  Italy.  It  survives  only  because  there  is  noth 
ing  else  to  replace  it  with,  for  men  must  wear  their  old 
habits  (however  threadbare  and  out  at  the  elbows) 
till  they  get  better.  It  is  literally  a  superstition,  — 
a  something  left  to  stand  over  till  the  great  commercial 
spirit  of  the  nineteenth  century  balances  his  accounts 
again,  and  then  it  will  be  banished  to  the  limbo  of 
profit  and  loss.  The  Papacy  lies  dead  in  the  Vatican, 
but  the  secret  is  kept  for  the  present,  and  government 
is  carried  on  in  its  name.  After  the  fact  gets  abroad, 
perhaps  its  ghost  will  terrify  men  a  little  while  longer, 


ITALY.  149 

but  only  while  they  are  in  the  dark,  though  the  ghost 
of  a  creed  is  a  hard  thing  to  give  a  mortal  wound  to, 
and  may  be  laid,  after  all,  only  in  a  Red  Sea  of  blood. 

So  we  rattled  along  till  we  came  to  a  large  albergo 
just  below  the  village  of  Colonna.  While  our  horse 
was  taking  his  rinjresco,  we  climbed  up  to  it,  and 
found  it  desolate  enough,  —  the  houses  never  rebuilt 
since  Consul  Rienzi  sacked  it  five  hundred  years  ago. 
It  was  a  kind  of  gray  incrustation  on  the  top  of  the 
hill,  chiefly  inhabited  by  pigs,  chickens,  and  an  old 
woman  with  a  distaff,  who  looked  as  sacked  ani 
ruinous  as  everything  around  her.  There  she  sat  in 
the  sun,  a  dreary,  doting  Clotho,  who  had  outlived 
her  sisters,  and  span  endless  destinies  which  none 
was  left  to  cut  at  the  appointed  time.  Of  course  she 
paused  from  her  work  a  moment,  and  held  out  a 
skinny  hand,  with  the  usual,  "Noblest  gentlemen, 
give  me  something  for  charity."  We  gave  her 
enough  to  pay  Charon's  ferriage  across  to  her  sisters, 
and  departed  hastily,  for  there  was  something  un 
canny  about  the  place.  In  this  climate  even  the 
finger-marks  of  Ruin  herself  are  indelible,  and  the 
walls  were  still  blackened  with  Rienzi's  fires. 

As  we  waited  for  our  carrettella,  I  saw  four  or  five 
of  the  lowest-looking  peasants  come  up  and  read  the 
handbill  of  a  tombola  (a  kind  of  lottery)  which  was 
stuck  up  beside  the  inn-door.  One  of  them  read  it 
aloud  for  our  benefit,  and  with  remarkable  propriety 
of  accent  and  emphasis.  This  benefit  of  clergy,  how 
ever,  is  of  no  great  consequence  where  there  is  nothing 
to  read.  In  Rome,  this  morning,  the  walls  were 


ISO  FIRESIDE    TRAVELS. 

spattered  with  placards  condemning  the  works  of 
George  Sand,  Eugene  Sue,  Gioberti,  and  others. 
But  in  Rome  one  may  contrive  to  read  any  book  he 
likes;  and  I  know  Italians  who  are  familiar  with 
Swedenborg,  and  even  Strauss. 

Our  stay  at  the  albergo  was  illustrated  by  one  other 
event,  —  a  nightingale  singing  in  a  full-blossomed 
elder-bush  on  the  edge  of  a  brook  just  across  the  road. 
So  liquid  were  the  notes,  and  so  full  of  spring,  that  the 
'  twig  he  tilted  on  seemed  a  conductor  through  which 
the  mingled  magnetism  of  brook  and  blossom  flowed 
into  him  and  were  precipitated  in  music.  Nature 
understancls  thoroughly  the  value  of  contrasts,  and 
accordingly  a  donkey  from  a  shed  hard  by,  hitched 
and  hesitated  and  agonized  through  his  bray,  so  that 
we  might  be  conscious  at  once  of  the  positive  and 
negative  poles  of  song.  It  was  pleasant  to  see  with 
what  undoubting  enthusiasm  he  went  through  his 
solo,  and  vindicated  Providence  from  the  imputation 
of  weakness  in  making  such  trifles  as  the  nightingale 
yonder.  "  Give  ear,  O  heaven  and  earth  ! "  he  seemed 
to  say,  "nor  dream  that  good,  sound  common-sense 
is  extinct  or  out  of  fashion  so  long  as  /  live."  I  sup 
pose  Nature  made  the  donkey  half  abstractedly,  while 
she  was  feeling  her  way  up  to  her  ideal  in  the  horse, 
and  that  his  bray  is  in  like  manner  an  experimental 
sketch  for  the  neigh  of  her  finished  animal. 

We  drove  on  to  Palestrma,  passing  for  some  dis 
tance  over  an  old  Roman  road,  as  carriageable  as 
when  it  was  built.  Palestrina  occupies  the  place  of 
the  once  famous  Temple  of  Fortune,  v/hose  ruiiio 


ITAL  Y.  151 

are  perhaps  a  fitter  monument  of  the  fickle  goddess 
than  ever  the  perfect  fane  was. 

Come  hither,  weary  ghosts  that  wail 
O'er  buried  Nimroud's  carven  walls, 

And  ye  whose  nightly  footsteps  frail 

From  the  dread  hu>h  of  Memphian  halls 
Lead  forth  the  whispering  funerals  ! 

Come  hither,  shade  of  ancient  pain 
That,  muffled  sitting,  hear'st  the  foam 

To  death-deaf  Cartilage  shout  in  vain, 
And  thou  that  in  the  Sibyl's  tome 
Tear-stain'st  the  never  after  Rome ! 

Come,  Marius,  Wolsey,  all  ye  great 

On  whom  proud  Fortune  stamped  her  heel, 

And  see  herself  the  sport  of  Fate, 
Herself  discrowned  and  made  to  feel 
The  treason  of  her  slippery  wheel ! 

One  climbs  through  a  great  part  of  the  town  by 
stone  steps,  passing  fragments  of  Pelasgic  wall,  (for 
history,  like  geology,  may  be  studied  here  in  succes 
sive  rocky  strata,}  and  at  length  reaches  the  inn,  called 
the  Cappellaro,  the  sign  of  which  is  a  great  tin  cardi 
nal's  hat,  swinging  from'a  small  building  on  the  other 
side  of  the  street,  so  that  a  better  view  of  it  may  be 
had  from  the  hostelry  itself.  The  landlady,  a  stout 
woman  of  about  sixty  years,  welcomed  us  heartily, 
and  burst  forth  into  an  eloquent  eulogy  on  some  fresh 
sea-fish  which  she  had  just  received  from  Rome.  She 
promised  everything  for  dinner,  leaving  us  to  choose; 
but  as  a  skilful  juggler  flitters  the  cards  before  you, 
and,  while  he  seems  to  offer  all,  forces  upon  you  the 
one  he  wishes,  so  we  found  that  whenever  we  under 
took  to  select  from  her  voluble  bill  of  fare,  we  had  in 


152  'FIRESIDE  TRAVELS. 

some  unaccountable  manner  always  ordered  sea- 
fish.  Therefore,  after  a  few  vain  efforts,  we  con 
tented  ourselves,  and,  while  our  dinner  was  cooking, 
climbed  up  to  the  top  of  the  town.  Here  stands  the 
deserted  Palazzo  Barberini,  in  which  is  a  fine  Roman 
mosaic  pavement.  It  was  a  dreary  old  place.  On 
the  ceilings  of  some  of  the  apartments  were  fading  out 
the  sprawling  apotheoses  of  heroes  of  the  family, 
(themselves  long  ago  faded  utterly,)  who  probably  went 
through  a  somewhat  different  ceremony  after  their 
deaths  from  that  represented  here.  One  of  the  rooms 
on  the  ground-floor  was  still  occupied,  and  from  its 
huge  grated  windows  there  swelled  and  subsided  at 
intervals  a  confused  turmoil  of  voices,  some  talking, 
some  singing,  some  swearing,  and  some  lamenting,  as 
if  a  page  of  Dante's  Inferno  had  become  suddenly 
alive  under  one's  eye.  This  was  the  prison,  and  in 
front  of  each  window  a  large  stone  block  allowed  ttte- 
a-tete  discourses  between  the  prisoners  and  their 
friends  outside.  Behind  the  palace  rises  a  steep, 
rocky  hill,  with  a  continuation  of  ruined  castle,  the 
innocent  fastness  now  of  rooks  and  swallows.  We 
walked  down  to  a  kind  of  terrace,  and  watched  the 
Alban  Mount  (which  saw  the  sunset  for  us  by  proxy) 
till  the  bloom  trembled  nearer  and  nearer  to  its  sum 
mit,  then  went  wholly  out,  we  could  not  say  when, 
and  day  was  dead.  Simultaneously  we  thought  of 
dining,  and  clattered  hastily  down  to  the  Cappellaro. 
We  had  to  wait  yet  half  an  hour  for  dinner,  and  from 
where  I  sat  I  could  see  through  the  door  of  the  dining- 
room  a  kind  of  large  hall  into  which  a  door  from  the 


ITALY.  153 

kitchen  also  opened.  Presently  I  saw  the  landlady 
come  out  with  a  little  hanging  lamp  in  her  hand,  and 
seat  herself  amply  before  a  row  of  baskets  ranged 
upside-down  along  the  wall.  She  carefully  lifted  the 
edge  of  one  of  these,  and,  after  she  had  groped  in  it  a 
moment,  I  heard  that  hoarse  choking  scream  peculiar 
to  fowls  when  seized  by  the  leg  in  the  dark,  as  if  their 
throats  were  in  their  tibiae  after  sunset.  She  took  out 
a  fine  young  cock  and  set  him  upon  his  feet  before 
her,  stupid  with  sleep,  and  blinking  helplessly  at  the 
lamp,  which  he  perhaps  took  for  a  sun  in  reduced 
circumstances,  doubtful  whether  to  crow  or  cackle. 
She  looked  at  him  admiringly,  felt  of  him,  sighed, 
gazed  sadly  at  his  coral  crest,  and  put  him  back  again. 
This  ceremony  she  repeated  with  five  or  six  of  the 
baskets,  and  then  went  back  into  the  kitchen.  I 
thought  of  Thessalian  hags  and  Arabian  enchantresses, 
and  wondered  if  these  were  transformed  travellers  — 
for  travellers  go  through  queer  transformations  some 
times.  Should  Storg  and  I  be  crowing  and  scratching 
to-morrow  morning,  instead  of  going  to  Subiaco? 
Should  we  be  Plato's  men,  with  the  feathers,  instead 
of  without  them?  I  would  probe  this  mystery.  So, 
when  the  good  woman  came  in  to  lay  the  table,  I  asked 
what  she  had  been  doing  with  the  fowls. 

"I  thought  to  kill  one  for  the  gentlemen's  soup; 
but  they  were  so  beautiful  my  heart  failed  me.  Still, 
if  the  gentlemen  wish  it  —  only  I  thought  two  pigeons 
would  be  more  delicate." 

Of  course  we  declined  to  be  accessory  to  such  a 
murder,  and  she  went  off  delighted,  returning  in  a 


154  FIRESIDE    TRAVELS. 

few  minutes  with  our  dinner.  First  we  had  soup, 
then  a  roasted  kid,  then  boiled  pigeons,  (of  which  the 
soup  had  been  made,)  and  last  the  pesci  di  mare,  which 
were  not  quite  so  great  a  novelty  to  us  as  to  our  good 
hostess.  However,  hospitality,  like  so  many  other 
things,  is  reciprocal,  and  the  guest  must  bring  his  half, 
or  it  is  naught.  The  prosperity  of  a  dinner  lies  in  the 
heart  of  him  that  eats  it,  and  an  appetite  twelve  miles 
long  enabled  us  to  do  as  great  justice  to  the  fish  as  if 
we  were  crowding  all  Lent  into  our  meal.  The  land 
lady  came  and  sat  by  us;  a  large  and  serious  cat, 
winding  her  great  tail  around  her,  settled  herself  com 
fortably  on  the  table,  licking  her  paws  now  and  then, 
with  a  poor  relation's  look  at  the  fish;  a  small  dog 
sprang  into  an  empty  chair,  and  a  large  one,  with 
very  confidential  manners,  would  go  from  one  to  the 
other  of  us,  laying  his  paw  upon  our  arms  as  if  he  had 
an  important  secret  to  communicate,  and  alternately 
pricking  and  drooping  his  ears  in  hope  or  despond 
ency.  The  albergatrice  forthwith  began  to  tell  us  her 
story,  —  how  she  was  a  widow,  how  she  had  borne 
thirteen  children,  twelve  still  living,  and  how  she  re 
ceived  a  pension  of  sixty  scudi  a  year,  under  the  old 
Roman  law,  for  her  meritoriousness  in  this  respect. 
The  portrait  of  the  son  she  had  lost  hung  over  the 
chimney-place,  and,  pointing  to  it,  she  burst  forth  into 
the  following  droll  threnody.  The  remarks  in  paren 
thesis  were  screamed  through  the  kitchen -door,  which 
stood  ajar,  or  addressed  personally  to  us. 

"O  my  son,  my  son !   the  doctors  killed  him,  just  as 
truly  as  if  they  had  poisoned  him !     O  how  beautiful 


ITALY.  155 

he  was!  beautiful!  beautiful !!  BEAUTIFUL!!!  (Are 
not  those  fish  done  yet?)  Look,  that  is  his  likeness,  — 
but  he  was  handsomer.  He  was  as  big  as  that"  (ex 
tending  her  arms),  —  "big  breast,  big  shoulders,  big 
xsides,  big  legs !  (Eat  'em,  eat  'em,  they  won't  hurt 
you,  fresh  sea-fish,  fresh!  fresh!!  FRESH!!!)  I  told 
them  the  doctors  had  murdered  him,  when  they  car 
ried  him  with  torches !  He  had  been  hunting,  and 
brought  home  some  rabbits,  I  remember,  for  he  was 
not  one  that  ever  came  empty-handed,  and  got  the 
fever,  and  you  treated  him  for  consumption,  and  killed 
him  !  (Shall  I  come  out  there,  or  will  you  bring  some 
more  fish?)"  So  she  went  on,  talking  to  herself,  to 
us,  to  the  little  serva  in  the  kitchen,  and  to  the  medi 
cal  profession  in  general,  repeating  every  epithet  three 
times,  with  increasing  emphasis,  till  her  voice  rose  to 
a  scream,  and  contriving  to  mix  up  her  living  children 
with  her  dead  one,  the  fish,  the  doctors,  the  serva,  and 
the  rabbits,  till  it  was  hard  to  say  whether  it  was  the 
fish  that  had  large  legs,  whether  the  doctors  had  killed 
them,  or  the  serva  had  killed  the  doctors,  and  whether 
the  bello  !  bello  !  !  bello  ! ! !  referred  to  her  son  or  a 
particularly  fine  rabbit. 

2$th.  —  Having  engaged  our  guide  and  horses  the 
night  before,  we  set  out  betimes  this  morning  for  Ole- 
vano.  From  Palestrina  to  Cavi  the  road  winds  along 
a  narrow  valley,  following  the  course  of  a  stream  which 
rustles  rather  than  roars  below.  Large  chestnut-trees 
lean  every  way  on  the  steep  sides  of  the  hills  above  us, 
and  at  every  opening  we  could  see  great  stretches  of 
Campagna  rolling  away  and  away  toward  the  bases  of 


156  FIRESIDE    TRAVELS. 

purple  mountains  streaked  with  snow.     The  sides  of 
the  road  were  drifted  with  heaps  of  wild  hawthorn 
and  honeysuckle  in  full  bloom,  and  bubbling  with  in 
numerable  nightingales  that  sang  unseen.     Overhead 
,  the  sunny  sky  tinkled  with  larks,  as  if  the  frost  in  the 
1  air  were  breaking  up  and  whirling  away  on  the  swollen 
currents  of  spring. 

Before  long  we  overtook  a  little  old  man  hobbling 
toward  Cavi,  with  a  bag  upon  his  back.  This  was  the 
mail !  Happy  country,  which  Hurry  and  Worry  have 
not  yet  subjugated !  Then  we  clattered  up  and  down 
the  narrow  paved  streets  of  Cavi,  through  the  market 
place,  full  of  men  dressed  all  alike  in  blue  jackets,  blue 
breeches,  and  white  stockings,  who  do  not  stare  at 
the  strangers,  and  so  out  at  the  farther  gate.  Now 
oftener  and  oftener  we  meet  groups  of  peasants  in 
gayest  dresses,  ragged  pilgrims  with  staff  and  scallop, 
singing  (horribly) ;  then  processions  with  bag-pipes 
and  pipes  in  front,  droning  and  squealing  (horribly) ; 
then  strings  of  two-wheeled  carts,  eight  or  nine  in 
each,  and  in  the  first  the  priest,  book  in  hand,  setting 
the  stave,  and  all  singing  (horribly).  This  must  be 
inquired  into.  Gigantic  guide,  who,  splendid  with 
blue  sash  and  silver  knee-buckles,  has  contrived,  by 
incessant  drumming  with  his  heels,  to  get  his  mule  in 
front,  is  hailed. 

"Ho,   Petruccio,  what  is  the  meaning  of  all  this 
press  of  people?" 

"Festa,  Lordship,  at  Genezzano." 

"What/es/a?" 

"Of  the  Madonna,  Lordship,"  and  touches  his  hat, 


ITALY.  157 

for  they  are  all  dreadfully  afraid  of  her  for  some  reason 
or  other. 

We  are  in  luck,  this  being  the  great  jesta  of  the  year 
among  the  mountains,  —  a  thing  which  people  go  out 
of  Rome  to  see. 

"Where  is  Genezzano?" 

''Just  over  yonder,  Lordship,"  and  pointed  to  the 
left,  where  was  what  seemed  like  a  monstrous  crystal 
lization  of  rock  on  the  crown  of  a  hill,  with  three  or 
four  taller  crags  of  castle  towering  in  the  midst,  and 
all  gray,  except  the  tiled  roofs,  whose  wrinkled  sides 
were  gold -washed  with  a  bright  yellow  lichen,  as  if 
ripples,  turned  by  some  spell  to  stone,  had  contrived 
to  detain  the  sunshine  \vith  which  they  were  touched 
at  the  moment  of  transformation. 

The  road,  wherever  it  came  into  sight,  burned  with 
brilliant  costumes,  like  an  illuminated  page  of  Frois- 
sart.  Gigantic  guide  meanwhile  shows  an  uncom 
fortable  and  fidgety  reluctance  to  turn  aside  and  enter 
fairyland,  which  is  wholly  unaccountable.  Is  the  huge 
earthen  creature  an  Afrite,  under  sacred  pledge  to  Sol 
omon,  and  in  danger  of  being  sealed  up  again,  if  he 
venture  near  the  festival  of  our  Blessed  Lady?  If  so, 
that  also  were  a  ceremony  worth  seeing,  and  we  insist. 
He  wriggles  and  swings  his  great  feet  with  an  evident 
impulse  to  begin  kicking  the  sides  of  his  mule  again 
and  fly.  The  way  over  the  hills  from  Genezzano  to 
Olevano  he  pronounces  scomodissima,  demanding  of 
every  peasant  who  goes  by  if  it  be  not  entirely  impass 
able.  This  leading  question,  put  in  all  the  tones  of 
plausible  entreaty  he  can  command,  meets  the  inva- 


158  FIRESIDE    TRAVELS. 

riable  reply,  "E  scomoda,  davvero ;  ma  per  le  bestie  — 
eh!"  (it  is  bad,  of  a  truth,  but  for  the  beasts  —  eh !) 
and  then  one  of  those  indescribable  shrugs,  unintelli 
gible  at  first  as  the  compass  to  a  savage,  but  in  which 
the  expert  can  make  twenty  hair's-breadth  distinc 
tions  between  N.  E.  and  N.  N.  E. 

Finding  that  destiny  had  written  it  on  his  forehead, 
Ihe  guide  at  last  turned  and  went  cantering  and  kick 
ing  toward  Genezzano,  we  following.  Just  before 
you  reach  the  town,  the  road  turns  sharply  to  the  right, 
and,  crossing  a  little  gorge,  loses  itself  in  the  dark  gate 
way.  Outside  the  gate  is  an  open  space,  which  formi 
cated  with  peasantry  in  every  variety  of  costume  that 
was  not  Parisian.  Laughing  women  were  climbing 
upon  their  horses  (which  they  bestride  like  men) ; 
pilgrims  were  chanting,  and  beggars  (the  howl  of  an 
Italian  beggar  in  the  country  is  something  terrible) 
howling  in  discordant  rivalry.  It  was  a  scene  lively 
enough  to  make  Heraclitus  shed  a  double  allowance  of 
tears;  but  our  giant  was  still  discomforted.  As  soon 
as  we  had  entered  the  gate,  he  dodged  into  a  little  back 
street,  just  as  we  were  getting  out  of  which  the  mys 
tery  of  his  unwillingness  was  cleared  up.  He  had 
been  endeavoring  to  avoid  a  creditor.  But  it  so 
chanced  (as  Fate  can  hang  a  man  with  even  a  rope  of 
sand)  that  the  enemy  was  in  position  just  at  the  end 
of  this  very  lane,  where  it  debouched  into  the  Piazza 
of  the  town. 

The  disputes  of  Italians  are  very  droll  things,  and  I 
will  accordingly  bag  the  one  which  is  now  imminent, 
as  a  specimen.  They  quarrel  as  unaccountably  as 


ITALY.  159 

dogs,  who  put  their  noses  together,  dislike  each  other's 
kind  of  smell,  and  instantly  tumble  one  over  the  other, 
with  noise  enough  to  draw  the  eyes  of  a  whole  street. 
So  these  people  burst  out,  without  apparent  prelimina 
ries,  into  a  noise  and  fury  and  war-dance  which  would 
imply  the  very  utmost  pitch  and  agony  of  exasperation. 
And  the  subsidence  is  as  sudden.  They  explode  each 
other  on  mere  contact,  as  if  by  a  law  of  nature,  like 
two  hostile  gases.  They  do  not  grow  warm,  but  leap 
at  once  from  zero  to  some  degree  of  white -heat,  to  in 
dicate  which  no  Anglo-Saxon  thermometer  of  wrath 
is  highly  enough  graduated.  If  I  were  asked  to  name 
one  universal  characteristic  of  an  Italian  town, '  I 
should  say,  two  men  clamoring  and  shaking  them 
selves  to  pieces  at  each  other,  and  a  woman  leaning 
lazily  out  of  a  window,  and  perhaps  looking  at  some 
thing  else.  Till  one  gets  used  to  this  kind  of  thing,  one 
expects  some  horrible  catastrophe;  but  during  eight 
months  in  Italy  I  have  only  seen  blows  exchanged 
thrice.  In  the  present  case  the  explosion  was  of  harm 
less  gunpowder. 

"  Why-  haven't  -you-paid-those-fifty-five-bajocchi  at 
the-pizzicarolo's?"  began  the  adversary,  speaking 
with  such  inconceivable  rapidity  that  he  made  only 
one  word,  nay,  as  it  seemed,  one  monosyllable,  of  the 
whole  sentence.  Our  giant,  with  a  controversial  gen 
ius  which  I  should  not  have  suspected  in  him,  imme 
diately,  and  with  great  adroitness,  changed  the  ground 
of  dispute,  and,  instead  of  remaining  an  insolvent 
debtor,  raised liimself  at  once  to  the  ethical  position  of 
a  moralist  resisting  an  unjust  demand  from  principle, 


l6o  FIRESIDE    TRAVELS. 

"It  was  only  /07-ty-five,"  roared  he. 

"But  I  say  #/ty-five,"  screamed  the  other,  and 
shook  his  close-cropped  head  as  a  boy  does  an  apple 
on  the  end  of  a  switch,  as  if  he  meant  presently  to  jerk 
it  off  at  his  antagonist. 

"Birbone!"  yelled  the  guide,  gesticulating  so  furi 
ously  with  every  square  inch  of  his  ponderous  body 
that  I  thought  he  would  throw  his  mule  over,  the  poor 
beast  standing  all  the  while  with  drooping  head  and 
ears  while  the  thunders  of  this  man-quake  burst  over 
him.  So  feels  the  tortoise  that  sustains  the  globe 
when  earth  suffers  fiery  convulsions. 

"Birbante!"  retorted  the  creditor,  and  the  oppro 
brious  epithet  clattered  from  between  his  shaking  jaws 
as  a  refractory  copper  is  rattled  out  of  a  Jehoiada-box 
by  a  child. 

"Andate  m  jar  friggere!"   howled  giant. 

" Andate  ditto,  ditto!"  echoed  creditor,  —  and  be 
hold,  the  thing  is  over !  The  giant  promises  to  attend 
to  the  affair  when  he  comes  back,  the  creditor  returns 
to  his  booth,  and  we  ride  on. 

Speaking  of  Italian  quarrels,  I  am  tempted  to  paren 
thesize  here  another  which  I  saw  at  Civita  Vecchia. 
We  had  been  five  days  on  our  way  from  Leghorn  in  a 
French  steamer,  a  voyage  performed  usually,  I  think, 
in  about  thirteen  hours.  It  was  heavy  weather,  blow 
ing  what  a  sailor  would  call  half  a  gale  of  wind,  and 
the  caution  of  our  captain,  not  to  call  it  fear,  led  him 
to  put  in  for  shelter  first  at  Porto  Ferrajo  in  Elba,  and 
then  at  Santo  Stefano  on  the  Italian  coast.  Our  little 
black  water-beetle  of  a  mail-packet  was  knocked 


ITALY.  l6l 

about  pretty  well,  and  all  the  Italia?'  passengers  dis 
appeared  in  the  forward  cabin  before  we  were  out  of 
port.  When  we  were  fairly  at  anchor  within  the  har 
bor  of  Civita  Vecchia,  they  crawled  out  again,  sluggish 
as  winter  flies,  their  vealy  faces  mezzotinted  with  soot. 
One  of  them  presently  appeared  in  the  custom 
house,  his  only  luggage  being  a  cage  closely  covered 
with  a  dirty  red  handkerchief,  which  represented  his 
linen. 

"What  have  you  in  the  cage ? "  asked  the  doganiere. 

"Eh  !   nothing  other  than  a  parrot." 

"There  is  a  duty  of  one  scudo  and  one  bajoccho, 
then." 

"Santo  diavolo !  but  what  hoggishness ! " 

Thereupon  instant  and  simultaneous  blow-up,  01 
rather  a  series  of  explosions,  like  those  in  honor  of  a 
Neapolitan  saint's-day,  lasting  about  ten  minutes,  and 
followed  by  as  sudden  quiet.  In  the  course  of  it,  the 
owner  of  the  bird,  playing  irreverently  on  the  first  half 
of  its  name  (pappagp&o),  hinted  that  it  would  be  a 
high  duty  for  his  Holiness  himself  (Papa).  After  a 
pause  for  breath,  he  said  quietly,  as  if  nothing  had 
happened,  "Very  good,  then,  since  I  must  pay,  I  will," 
and  began  fumbling  for  the  money. 

"Meanwhile,  do  me  the  politeness  to  show  me  the 
bird,"  said  the  officer. 

"With  all  pleasure,"  and,  lifting  a  corner  of  the 
handkerchief,  there  lay  the  object  of  dispute  on  his 
back,  stone-dead,  with  his  claws  curled  up  helplessly 
on  each  side  of  his  breast.  I  believe  the  owner  would 
have  been  pleased  had  it  even  been  his  grandmother 


1 62  FIRESIDE    TRAVELS. 

who  had  thus  evaded  duty,  so  exquisite  is  the  pleasure 
of  an  Italian  in  escaping  payment  of  anything. 

"I  make  a  present  of  the  poor  bird,"  said  he 
blandly. 

The  publican,  however,  seemed  to  feel  that  he  had 
been  somehow  cheated,  and  I  left  them  in  high  debate, 
as  to  whether  the  bird  were  dead  when  it  entered  the 
custom-house,  and,  if  it  had  been,  whether  a  dead 
parrot  were  dutiable.  Do  not  blame  me  for  being  en 
tertained  and  trying  to  entertain  you  with  these  trifles. 
I  remember  Virgil's  stern 

"  Che  per  poco  e  che  teco  non  mi  risso," 

but  Dante's  journey  was  of  more  import  to  himself 
and  others  than  mine. 

I  am  struck  by  the  freshness  and  force  of  the  pas 
sions  in  Europeans,  and  cannot  help  feeling  as  if  there 
were  something  healthy  in  it.  When  I  think  of  the 
versatile  and  accommodating  habits  of  America,  it 
seems  like  a  land  without  thunder-storms.  In  pro 
portion  as  man  grows  commercial,  does  he  also  be 
come  dispassionate  and  incapable  of  electric  emotions? 
The  driving-wheels  of  all-powerful  nature  are  in  the 
back  of  the  head,  and,  as  man  is  the  highest  type  of 
organization,  so  a  nation  is  better  or  worse  as  it  ad 
vances  toward  the  highest  type  of  man,  or  recedes  from 
it.  But  it  is  ill  with  a  nation  when  the  cerebrum  sucks 
the  cerebellum  dry,  for  it  cannot  live  by  intellect  alone. 
The  broad  foreheads  always  carry  the  day  at  last,  but 
only  when  they  are  based  on  or  buttressed  with  massive 
hind-heads.  It  would  be  easier  to  make  a  people 


ITALY.  163 

/  great  in  whom  the  animal  is  vigorous,  than  to  keep  one 

I  so  after  it  has  begun  to  spindle  into  over-intellectuality. 

^  The  hands  that  have  grasped  dominion  and  held  it 
have  been  large  and  hard;  those  from  which  it  has 
slipped,  delicate,  and  apt  for  the  lyre  and  the  pencil. 
Moreover,  brain  is  always  to  be  bought,  but  passion 
never  comes  to  market.  On  the  whole,  I  am  rather 
inclined  to  like  this  European  impatience  and  fire, 
even  while  I  laugh  at  it,  and  sometimes  find  myself 

.  surmising  whether  a  people  who,  like  the  Americans, 
put  up  quietly  with  all  sorts  of  petty  personal  imposi 
tions  and  injustices,  will  not  at  length  find  it  too  great 
a  bore  to  quarrel  with  great  public  wrongs. 

Meanwhile,  I  must  remember  that  I  am  in  Genez- 
zano,  and  not  in  the  lecturer's  desk.  We  walked 
about  for  an  hour  or  two,  admiring  the  beauty  and 
grand  bearing  of  the  women,  and  the  picturesque  vi 
vacity  and  ever-renewing  unassuetude  of  the  whole 
scene.  Take  six  of  the  most  party-colored  dreams, 
break  them  to  pieces,  put  them  into  a  fantasy-kaleido 
scope,  and  when  you  look  through  it  you  will  see  some 
thing  that  for  strangeness,  vividness,  and  mutability 
looked  like  the  little  Piazza  of  Genezzano  seen  from 
the  church  porch.  As  we  wound  through  the  narrow 
streets  again  to  the  stables  where  we  had  left  our 
horses,  a  branch  of  laurel  or  ilex  would  mark  a  wine 
shop,  and,  looking  till  our  eye  cooled  and  toned  itself 
down  to  dusky  sympathy  with  the  crypt,  we  could  see 
the  smoky  interior  sprinkled  with  white  head-cloths 
and  scarlet  bodices,  with  here  and  there  a  yellow  spot 
of  lettuce  or  the  red  inward  gleam  of  a  wine-flask. 


1 64  FIRESIDE    TRAVELS. 

The  head-dress  is  precisely  of  that  most  ancient  pat 
tern  seen  on  Egyptian  statues,  and  so  colossal  are 
many  of  the  wearers,  that  you  might  almost  think  you 
saw  a  party  of  young  sphinxes  carousing  in  the  sunless 
core  of  a  pyramid. 

We  remourited  our  beasts,  and,  for  about  a  mile, 
cantered  gayly  along  a  fine  road,  and  then  turned  into 
a  by-path  along  the  flank  of  a  mountain.  Here  the 
guide's  strada  scomodissima  began,  and  we  were  forced 
to  dismount,  and  drag  our  horses  downward  for  a  mile 
or  two.  We  crossed  a  small  plain  in  the  valley,  and 
then  began  to  climb  the  opposite  ascent.  The  path 
was  perhaps  four  feet  broad,  and  was  paved  with 
irregularly  shaped  blocks  of  stone,  which,  having  been 
raised  and  lowered,  tipped,  twisted,  undermined,  and 
generally  capsized  by  the  rains  and  frosts  of  centuries, 
presented  the  most  diabolically  ingenious  traps  and 
pit-falls.  All  the  while  the  scenery  was  beautiful. 
Mountains  of  every  shape  and  hue  changed  their  slow 
outlines  ever  as  we  moved,  now  opening,  now  closing 
around  us,  sometimes  peering  down  solemnly  at  us 
over  each  other's  shoulders,  and  then  sinking  slowly 
out  of  sight,  or,  at  some  sharp  turn  of  the  path,  seem 
ing  to  stride  into  the  valley  and  confront  us  with  their 
craggy  challenge,  —  a  challenge  which  the  little  val 
leys  accepted,  if  we  did  not,  matching  their  rarest  tints 
of  gray  and  brown,  and  pink  and  purple,  or  that  royal 
dye  to  make  which  all  these  were  profusely  melted 
together,  for  a  moment's  ornament,  with  as  many 
shades  of  various  green  and  yellow.  Gray  towns 
crowded  and  clung  on  the  tops  of  peaks  that  seemed 


ITALY.  165 

inaccessible.  We  owe  a  great  deal  of  picturesqueness 
to  the  quarrels  and  thieveries  of  the  barons  of  the 
Middle  Ages.  The  traveller  and  artist  should  put  up 
a  prayer  for  their  battered  old  souls.  It  was  to  be  out 
of  their  way  and  that  of  the  Saracens  that  people  were 
driven  to  make  their  homes  in  spots  so  sublime  and 
inconvenient  that  the  eye  alone  finds  it  pleasant  to 
climb  up  to  them.  Nothing  else  but  an  American 
land-company  ever  managed  to  induce  settlers  upon 
territory  of  such  uninhabitable  quality.  I  have  seen 
an  insect  that  makes  a  mask  for  himself  out  of  the 
lichens  of  the  rock  over  which  he  crawls,  contriving 
so  to  deceive  the  birds;  and  the  towns  in  this  wild 
region  would  seem  to  have  been  built  on  the  same  prin 
ciple.  Made  of  the  same  stone  with  the  cliffs  on  which 
they  perch,  it  asks  good  eyesight  to  make  them  out  at 
the  distance  of  a  few  miles,  and  every  wandering 
mountain-mist  annihilates  them  for  the  moment. 

At  intervals,  I  could  hear  the  giant,  after  digging  at 
the  sides  of  his  mule  with  his  spurless  heels,  growling 
to  himself,  and  imprecating  an  apoplexy  (accidente] 
upon  the  path  and  him  who  made  it.  This  is  the  uni 
versal  malediction  here,  and  once  it  was  put  into 
rhyme  for  my  benefit.  I  was  coming  down  the  rusty 
steps  of  San  Gregorio  one  day,  and  having  paid  no 
heed  to  a  stout  woman  of  thirty  odd  who*  begged  some 
what  obtrusively,  she  screamed  after  me, 

"  Ah,  vi  pigli  un  accidente, 
Voi  che  non  date  niente !  " 

Ah,  may  a  sudden  apoplexy, 

You  who  give  not,  come  and  vex  ye ! 


1 66  FIRESIDE    TRAVELS. 

Our  guide  could  not  long  appease  his  mind  with  this 
milder  type  of  objurgation,  but  soon  intensified  it  into 
accidentaccio,  which  means  a  selected  apoplexy  of  un 
common  size  and  ugliness.  As  the  path  grew  worse 
and  worse,  so  did  the  repetition  of  this  phrase  (for  he 
was  slow  of  invention)  become  more  frequent,  till  at 
last  he  did  nothing  but  kick  and  curse,  —  mentally, 
I  have  no  doubt,  including  us  in  his  malediction.  I 
think  it  would  have  gratified  Langiaus  orEusfili  (both 
of  whom  commended  swearing)  to  have  heard  him. 
Before  long  we  turned  the  flank  of  the  hill  by  a  little 
shrine  of  the  Madonna,  and  there  was  Olevano  just 
above  us.  Like  the  other  towns  in  this  district,  it  was 
the  diadem  of  an  abrupt  peak  of  rock.  From  the 
midst  of  it  jutted  the  ruins  of  an  old  stronghold  of  the 
Colonna.  Probably  not  a  house  has  been  built  in  it 
for  centuries.  To  enter  the  town,  we  literally  rode 
up  a  long  flight  of  stone  steps,  and  soon  found  our 
selves  in  the  Piazza.  We  stopped  to  buy  some  cigars, 
and  the  zigararo,  as  he  rolled  them  up,  asked  if  we  did 
not  want  dinner.  We  told  him  we  should  get  it  at 
the  inn.  Benissimo,  he  would  be  there  before  us. 
What  he  meant,  we  could  not  divine;  but  it  turned 
out  that  he  was  the  landlord,  and  that  the  inn  only 
became  such  when  strangers  arrived,  relapsing  again 
immediately  fnto  a  private  dwelling.  We  found  our 
host  ready  to  receive  us,  and  went  up  to  a  large  room 
on  the  first  floor.  After  due  instructions,  we  seated 
ourselves  at  the  open  windows,  —  Storg  to  sketch,  and 
I  to  take  a  mental  calotype  of  the  view.  Among  the 
many  lovely  ones  of  the  day,  this  was  the  loveliest,  — 


ITALY.  167 

or  was  it  only  that  the  charm  of  repose  was  added? 
On  our  right  was  the  silent  castle,  and  beyond  it  the 
silent  mountains.  To  the  left  we  looked  down  over 
the  clustering  houses  upon  a  campagna-valley  of 
peaceful  cultivation,  vineyards,  olive-orchards,  grain- 
fields,  in  their  earliest  green,  and  dark  stripes  of  new- 
ploughed  earth,  over  which  the  cloud-shadows  melted 
tracklessly  toward  the  hills  which  round  softly  up 
ward  to  Monte  Cavi. 

When  our  dinner  came,  and  with  it  a  flask  of  drowsy 
red  Aleatico,  like  ink  with  a  suspicion  of  life-blood  in 
it,  such  as  one  might  fancy  Shakespeare  to  have  dipped 
his  quill  in,  we  had  our  table  so  placed  that  the  satis 
faction  of  our  hunger  might  be  dissensualized  by  the 
view  from  the  windows.  Many  a  glutton  has  eaten 
up  farms  and  woodlands  and  .pastures,  and  so  did  we, 
aesthetically,  saucing  our  jrittata  and  flavoring  our 
Aleatico  with  landscape.  It  is  a  fine  thing  when  we 
can  accustom  our  animal  appetites  to  good  society, 
when  body  and  soul  (like  master  and  servant  in  an 
Arab  tent)  sit  down  together  at  the  same  board.  This 
thought  is  forced  upon  one  very  often  in  Italy,  as  one 
picnics  in  enchanted  spots,  where  Imagination  and 
Fancy  play  the  parts  of  the  unseen  waiters  in  the  fairy 
story,  and  serve  us  with  course  after  course  of  their 
ethereal  dishes.  Sense  is  satisfied  with  less  and  sim 
pler  food  when  sense  and  spirit  are  fed  together,  and 
the  feast  of  the  loaves  and  fishes  is  spread  for  us  anew. 
,  If  it  be  important  for  a  state  to  educate  its  lower  classes, 
i  so  is  it  for  us  personally  to  instruct,  elevate,  and  refine 
cur  senses,  the  lower  classes  of  our  private  body-politic, 


1 68  FIRESIDE    TRAVELS. 

and  which,  if  left  to  their  own  brute  instincts,  will  dis- 
\  order  or  destroy  the  whole  commonwealth  with  flam- 
I  ing  insurrection. 

After  dinner  came  our  guide  to  be  paid.  He,  too, 
had  had  his  jrittata  and  his  fiasco  (or  two),  and  came 
back  absurdly  comic,  reminding  one  of  the  giant  who 
was  so  taken  in  by  the  little  tailor.  He  was  not  in  the 
least  tipsy;  but  the  wine  had  excited  his  poor  wits, 
whose  destiny  it  was  (awkward  servants  as  they  were  !) 
to  trip  up  and  tumble  over  each  other  in  proportion 
as  they  became  zealous.  He  was  very  anxious  to  do 
us  in  some  way  or  other;  he  only  vaguely  guessed  how, 
but  felt  so  gigantically  good-natured  that  he  could  not 
keep  his  face  sober  long  enough.  It  is  quite  clear  why 
the  Italians  have  no  word  but  recitare  to  express  acting, 
I  for  their  stage  is  no  more  theatric  than  their  street,  and 
\  to  exaggerate  in  the  least  would  be  ridiculous.  We 
Waver  tempered  and  mannered  Septentrions  must  give 
|the  pegs  a  screw  or  two  to  bring  our  spirits  up  to  nat 
ure's  concert-pitch.  Storg  and  I  sat  enjoying  the  ex 
hibition  of  our  giant,  as  if  we  had  no  more  concern  in 
it  than  as  a  comedy.  It  was  nothing  but  a  spectacle 
to  us,  at  which  we  were  present  as  critics,  while  he 
inveighed,  expostulated,  argued,  and  besought,  in  a 
breath.  Finding  all  his  attempts  miscarry,  or  result 
ing  in  nothing  more  solid  than  applause,  he  said, 
"Forse  non  capiscono?"  (Perhaps  you  don't  under 
stand?)  "Capiscono  pur'  troppo"  (They  understand 
only  too  well,)  replied  the  landlord,  upon  which  terra 
filius  burst  into  a  laugh,  and  began  begging  for  more 
buonamano.  Failing  in  this,  he  tightened  his  sash, 


ITALY.  169 

offered  to  kiss  our  lordships'  hands,  an  act  of  homage 
which  we  declined,  and  departed,  carefully  avoiding 
Genezzano  on  his  return,  I  make  no  doubt% 

We  paid  our  bill,  and  went  down  to  the  door,  where 
we  found  our  guides  and  donkeys,  the  host's  hand 
some  wife  and  handsomer  daughter,  with  two  of  her 
daughters,  and  a  crowd  of  women  and  children  wait 
ing  to  witness  the  exit  of  the  foreigners.  We  made  all 
the  mothers  and  children  happy  by  a  discriminating 
largesse  of  copper  among  the  little  ones.  They  are  a 
charming  people,  the  natives  of  these  out-of-the-way 
Italian  towns,  if  kindness,  courtesy,  and  good  looks 
make  people  charming.  Our  beards  and  felt  hats, 
which  make  us  pass  for  artists,  were  our  passports  to 
the  warmest  welcome  and  the  best  cheer  everywhere. 
Reluctantly  we  mounted  our  donkeys,  and  trotted 
away,  our  guides  (a  man  and  a  boy)  running  by  the 
flank  (true  henchmen,  haunchmen,  flanquiers  or  flun 
keys)  and  inspiring  the  little  animals  with  pokes  in  the 
side,  or  with  the  even  more  effectual  ahrrrrrrr !  Is 
there  any  radical  affinity  between  this  rolling  fire  of 
r's  and  the  word  arra,  which  means  hansel  or  earnest 
money?  The  sound  is  the  same,  and  has  a  marvel 
lous  spur-power  over  the  donkey,  who  seems  to  under 
stand  that  full  payment  of  goad  or  cudgel  is  to  follow. 
I  have  known  it  to  move  even  a  Sicilian  mule,  the 
least  sensitive  and  most  obstinate  of  creatures  with 
ears,  except  a  British  church-warden. 

We  wound  along  under  a  bleak  hill,  more  desolate 
than  anything  I  had  ever  seen.  The  old  gray  rocks 
seemed  not  to  thrust  themselves  out  of  the  rusty  soil, 


I/O  FIRESIDE    TRAVELS. 

but  rather  to  be  stabbed  into  it,  as  if  they  had  been 
hailed  down  upon  it  by  some  volcano.  There  was 
nearly  as  much  look  of  design  as  there  is  in  a  druidical 
circle,  and  the  whole  looked  like  some  graveyard  in  an 
extinguished  world,  the  monument  of  mortality  itself, 
such  as  Bishop  Wilkins  might  have  found  in  the  moon, 
if  he  had  ever  got  thither.  The  path  grew  ever  wilder, 
and  Rojate,  the  next  town  we  came  to,  grim  and 
grizzly,  under  a  grim  and  grizzly  sky  of  low-trailing 
clouds,  which  had  suddenly  gathered,  looked  drearier 
even  than  the  desolations  we  had  passed.  It  was  easy 
to  understand  why  rocks  should  like  to  live  here  well 
enough;  but  what  could  have  brought  men  hither, 
and  then  kept  them  here?  was  beyond  all  reasonable 
surmise.  Barren  hills  stood  sullenly  aloof  all  around, 
incapable  of  any  crop  but  lichens. 

We  entered  the  gate,  and  found  ourselves  in  the 
midst  of  a  group  of  wild-looking  men  gathered  about 
the  door  of  a  wine-shop.  Some  of  them  were  armed 
with  long  guns,  and  we  saw  (for  the  first  time  in  situ) 
the  tall  bandit  hat  with  ribbons  wound  round  it,  —  such 
as  one  is  familiar  with  in  operas,  and  on  the  heads  of 
those  inhabitants  of  the  Scalimata  in  Rome,  who  have 
a  costume  of  their  own,  and  placidly  serve  as  models 
through  the  whole  pictorial  range  of  divine  and  hu 
man  nature,  from  the  Padre  Eterno  to  Judas.  Twenty 
years  ago,  when  my  notion  of  an  Italian  was  divided 
between  a  monk  and  a  bravo,  the  first  of  whom  did 
nothing  but  enter  at  secret  doors  and  drink  your  health 
in  poison,  while  the  other  lived  behind  corners,  support 
ing  himself  by  the  productive  industry  of  digging  your 


ITALY.  I/I 

person  all  over  with  a  stiletto,  I  should  have  looked 
for  instant  assassination  from  these  carousing 
ruffians.  But  the  only  blood  shed  on  the  occasion 
was  that  of  the  grape.  A  ride  over  the  mountains  for 
two  hours  had  made  us  thirsty,  and  two  or  three  ba- 
jocchi  gave  a  tumbler  of  vino  asciutto  to  all  four  of  us. 
"You  are  welcome,"  said  one  of  the  men,  "we  are 
all  artists  after  a  fashion;  we  are  all  brothers."  The 
manners  here  are  more  republican,  and  the  title  of 
lordship  disappears  altogether.  Another  came  up  and 
insisted  that  we  should  drink  a  second  flask  of  wine 
as  his  guests.  In  vain  we  protested ;  no  artist  should 
pass  through  Rojate  without  accepting  that  token  of 
good-will,  and  with  the  liberal  help  of  our  guides  we 
contrived  to  gulp  it  down.  He  was  for  another;  but 
we  protested  that  we  were  entirely  full,  and  that  it 
was  impossible.  I  dare  say  the  poor  fellow  would 
have  spent  a  week's  earnings  on  us,  if  we  would  have 
allowed  it.  We  proposed  to  return  the  civility,  and 
to  leave  a  paul  for  them  to  drink  a  good  journey  to  us 
after  we  were  gone;  but  they  would  not  listen  to  it. 
Our  entertainer  followed  us  along  to  the  Piazza,  beg 
ging  one  of  us  to  let  him  serve  as  donkey-driver  to 
Subiaco.  When  this  was  denied,  he  said  that  there 
was  a  jesta  here  also,  and  that  we  must  stop  long 
enough  to  see  the  procession  of  zitelle  (young  girls), 
which  would  soon  begin.  But  evening  was  already 
gathering,  the  clouds  grew  momently  darker,  and 
fierce,  damp  gusts,  striking  us  with  the  suddenness 
of  a  blow,  promised  a  wild  night.  We  had  still  eight 
miles  of  mountain-path  before  us,  and  we  struggled 


1/2  FIRESIDE    TRAVELS. 

away.  As  we  crossed  the  next  summit  beyond  the 
town,  a  sound  of  chanting  drifted  by  us  on  the  wind, 
wavered  hither  and  thither,  now  heard,  now  lost,  then 
a  doubtful  something  between  song  and  gust,  and, 
lingering  a  few  moments,  we  saw  the  white  head-dresses, 
gliding  two  by  two,  across  a  gap  between  the  houses. 
The  scene  and  the  music  were  both  in  neutral  tints,  a 
sketch,  as  it  were,  in  sepia  a  little  blurred. 

Before  long  the  clouds  almost  brushed  us  as  they 
eddied  silently  by,  and  then  it  began  to  rain,  first  mist 
ily,  and  then  in  thick,  hard  drops.  Fortunately  there 
was  a  moon,  shining  placidly  in  the  desert  heaven 
above  all  this  turmoil,  or  we  could  not  have  found  our 
path,  which  in  a  few  moments  became  a  roaring  tor 
rent  almost  knee-deep.  It  was  a  cold  rain,  and  far 
above  us,  where  the  mountain-peaks  tore  gaps  in  the 
clouds,  we  could  see  the  white  silence  of  new-fallen 
snow.  Sometimes  we  had  to  dismount  and  wade,  — 
a  circumstance  which  did  not  make  our  saddles  more 
comfortable  when  we  returned  to  them  and  could 
hear  them  go  crosh,  crosh,  as  the  water  gurgled  out  of 
them  at  every  jolt.  There  was  no  hope  of  shelter 
nearer  than  Subiaco,  no  sign  of  man,  and  no  sound 
but  the  multitudinous  roar  of  waters  on  every  side. 
Rivulet  whispered  to  rivulet,  and  water-fall  shouted 
to  water -fall,  as  they  leaped  from  rock  to  rock,  all 
hurrying  to  reinforce  the  main  torrent  below,  which 
hummed  onward  toward  the  Anio  with  dilated  heart. 
So  gathered  the  hoarse  Northern  swarms  to  descend 
upon  sunken  Italy;  and  so  forever  does  physical  and 
intellectual  force  seek  its  fatal  equilibrium,  rushing 


ITALY.  173 

in  and  occupying  wherever  it  is  drawn  by  the  attrac 
tion  of  a  lower  level. 

We  forded  large  streams  that  had  been  dry  beds  an 
hour  before;  and  so  sudden  was  the  creation  of  the 
floods,  that  it  gave  one  almost  as  fresh  a  feeling  of 
water  as  if  one  had  been  present  in  Eden  when  the 
first  rock  gave  birth  to  the  first  fountain.  I  had  a 
severe  cold,  I  was  wet  through  from  the  hips  down 
ward,  and  yet  I  never  enjoyed  anything  more  in  my 
life,  —  so  different  is  the  shower-bath  to  which  we 
doom  ourselves  from  that  whose  string  is  pulled  by 
the  prison-warden  compulsion.  After  our  little  bear 
ers  had  tottered  us  up  and  down  the  dusky  steeps  of  a 
few  more  mountain-spurs,  where  a  misstep  would 
have  sent  us  spinning  down  the  fathomless  black  no 
where  below,  we  came  out  upon  the  high-road,  and 
found  it  a  fine  one,  as  all  the  great  Italian  roads  are. 
The  rain  broke  off  suddenly,  and  on  the  left,  seeming 
about  half  a  mile  away,  sparkled  the  lights  of  Subiaco, 
flashing  intermittently  like  a  knot  of  fire-flies  in  a 
meadow.  The  town,  owing  to  the  necessary  wind 
ings  of  the  road,  was  still  three  miles  off,  and  just  as 
the  guides  had  progued  and  ahrred  the  donkeys  into 
a  brisk  joggle,  I  resolved  to  give  up  my  saddle  to  the 
boy,  and  try  Tom  Coryate's  compasses.  It  was 
partly  out  of  humanity  to  myself  and  partly  to  him, 
for  he  was  tired  and  I  was  cold.  The  elder  guide 
and  I  took  the  lead,  and,  as  I  looked  back,  I  laughed 
to  see  the  lolling  ears  of  Storg's  donkey  thrust  from 
under  his  long  cloak,  as  if  he  were  coming  out  from  a 
black  Arab  tent.  We  soon  left  them  behind,  and 


174  FIRESIDE    TRAVELS. 

paused  at  a  bridge  over  the  Anio  till  we  heard  the 
patter  of  little  hoofs  again.  The  bridge  is  a  single 
arch,  bent  between  the  steep  edges  of  a  gorge  through 
which  the  Anio  huddled  far  below,  showing  a  green 
gleam  here  and  there  in  the  struggling  moonlight,  as 
if  a  fish  rolled  up  his  burnished  flank.  After  another 
mile  and  a  half,  we  reached  the  gate,  and  awaited  our 
companions.  It  was  dreary  enough,  —  waiting  al 
ways  is,  —  and  as  the  snow-chilled  wind  whistled 
through  the  damp  archway  where  we  stood,  my  legs 
illustrated  feelingly  to  me  how  they  cool  water  in  the 
East,  by  wrapping  the  jars  with  wet  woollen,  and  set 
ting  them  in  a  draught.  At  last  they  came;  I  re 
mounted,  and  we  went  sliding  through  the  steep,  wet 
streets  till  we  had  fairly  passed  through  the  whole 
town.  Before  a  long  building  of  two  stories,  without 
a  symptom  of  past  or  future  light,  we  stopped.  "  Ecco 
la  Paletta!"  said  the  guide,  and  began  to  pound  furi 
ously  on  the  door  with  a  large  stone,  which  he  some 
time  before  provided  for  the  purpose.  After  a  long 
period  of  sullen  irresponsiveness,  we  heard  descending 
footsteps,  light  streamed  through  the  chinks  of  the 
door,  and  the  invariable  "Chi  e?"  which  precedes 
the  unbarring  of  all  .portals  here,  came  from  within. 
"Due  jorestieri"  answered  the  guide,  and  the  bars 
rattled  in  hasty  welcome.  "Make  us,"  we  exclaimed, 
as  we  stiffly  climbed  down  from  our  perches,  "your 
biggest  fire  in  your  biggest  chimney,  and  then  we  will 
talk  of  supper!"  In  five  minutes  two  great  laurel- 
fagots  were  spitting  and  crackling  in  an  enormous 
fire-place;  and  Storg  and  I  were  in  the  costume  which 


ITALY.  1/5 

Don  Quixote  wore  on  the  Brown  Mountain.  Of 
course  there  was  nothing  for  supper  but  a  jrittata; 
but  there  are  worse  things  in  the  world  than  a  jrittata 
col  prosciutto,  and  we  discussed  it  like  a  society  just 
emerging  from  barbarism,  the  upper  half  of  our  per 
sons  presenting  all  the  essentials  of  an  advanced  civ 
ilization,  while  our  legs  skulked  under  the  table  as 
free  from  sartorial  impertinences  as  those  of  the  noblest 
savage  that  ever  ran  wild  in  the  woods.  And  so  eccoci 
finalmente  arrivati  I 

27th.  —  Nothing  can  be  more  lovely  than  the  scen 
ery  about  Subiaco.  The  town  itself  is  built  on  a  kind 
of  cone  rising  from  the  midst  of  a  valley  abounding 
in  olives  and  vines,  with  a  superb  mountain  horizon 
around  it,  and  the  green  Anio  cascading  at  its  feet.  As 
you  walk  to  the  high-perched  convent  of  San  Bene 
detto,  you  look  across  the  river  on  your  right  just  after 
leaving  the  town,  to  a  cliff  over  which  the  ivy  pours  in 
torrents,  and  in  which  dwellings  have  been  hollowed 
out.  In  the  black  doorway  of  every  one  sits  a  woman 
in  scarlet  bodice  and  white  head-gear,  with  a  distaff 
spinning,  while  overhead  countless  nightingales  sing 
at  once  from  the  fringe  of  shrubbery.  The  glorious 
great  white  clouds  look  over  the  mountain -tops  into 
our  enchanted  valley,  and  sometimes  a  lock  of  their 
vapory  wool  would  be  torn  off,  to  lie  for  a  while  in 
some  inaccessible  ravine  like  a  snow-drift;  but  it 
seemed  as  if  no  shadow  could  fly  over  our  privacy  of 
sunshine  to-day.  The  approach  to  the  monastery  is 
delicious.  You  pass  out  of  the  hot  sun  into  the  green 
shadows  of  ancient  ilexes,  leaning  and  twisting  every 


1/6  FIRESIDE    TRAVELS. 

way  that  is  graceful,  their  branches  velvety  with  bril 
liant  moss,  in  which  grow  feathery  ferns,  fringing 
them  with  a  halo  of  verdure.  Then  comes  the  con 
vent,  with  its  pleasant  old  monks,  who  show  their 
sacred  vessels  (one  by  Cellini)  and  their  relics,  among 
which  is  a  finger-bone  of  one  of  the  Innocents.  Lower 
down  is  a  convent  of  Santa  Scolastica,  where  the  first 
book  was  printed  in  Italy. 

But  though  one  may  have  daylight  till  after  twenty- 
four  o'clock  in  Italy,  the  days  are  no  longer  than  ours, 
and  I  must  go  back  to  La  Paletta  to  see  about  a  vettura 
to  Tivoli.  I  leave  Storg  sketching,  and  walk  slowly 
down,  lingering  over  the  ever-changeful  views,  lin 
gering  opposite  the  nightingale-cliff,  but  get  back  to 
Subiaco  and  the  vetturino  at  last.  The  growl  of  a 
thunder-storm  soon  brought  Storg  home,  and  we  leave 
Subiaco  triumphantly,  at  five  o'clock,  in  a  light  car 
riage,  drawn  by  three  gray  stallions  (harnessed 
abreast)  on  the  full  gallop.  I  cannot  describe  our 
drive,  the  mountain-towns,  with  their  files  of  girls 
winding  up  from  the  fountain  with  balanced  water- 
jars  of  ruddy  copper,  or  chattering  around  it  bright- 
hued  as  parrots,  the  ruined  castles,  the  green  gleams 
of  the  capricious  river,  the  one  great  mountain  that 
soaked  up  all  the  rose  of  sunset,  and,  after  all  else  grew 
dim,  still  glowed  as  if  with  inward  fires,  and,  later,  the 
white  spray  smoke  of  Tivoli  that  drove  down  the 
valley  under  a  clear  cold  moon,  contrasting  strangely 
with  the  red  glare  of  the  lime-furnace  on  the  opposite 
hillside.  It  is  well  that  we  can  be  happy  sometimes 
without  peeping  and  botanizing  in  the  materials  that 


ITALY.  177 

make  us  so.  It  is  not  often  that  we  can  escape  the 
evil  genius  of  analysis  that  haunts  our  modern  day 
light  of  self -consciousness  (wir  haben  ja  aujgekldrt!} 
and  enjoy  a  day  of  right  Chaucer. 

P.S.  Now  that  I  am  printing  this,  a  dear  friend 
sends  me  an  old  letter,  and  says,  "Slip  in  somewhere, 
by  way  of  contrast,  what  you  wrote  me  of  your  visit 
to  Passawampscot."  It  is  odd,  almost  painful,  to  be 
confronted  with  your  past  self  and  your  past  self's 
doings,  when  you  have  forgotten  both.  But  here  is 
my  bit  of  American  scenery,  such  as  it  is. 

While  we  were  waiting  for  the  boat,  we  had  time  to 
investigate  P.  a  little.  We  wandered  about  with  no 
one  to  molest  us  or  make  us  afraid.  No  cicerone  was 
lying  in  wait  for  us,  no  verger  expected  with  funeral 
solemnity  the  more  than  compulsory  shilling.  I  re 
member  the  whole  population  of  Cortona  gathering 
round  me,  and  beseeching  me  not  to  leave  their  city 
till  I  had  seen  the  lampadone,  whose  keeper  had  un 
happily  gone  out  to  walk,  taking  the  key  with  him. 
Thank  Fortune,  here  were  no  antiquities,  no  galleries 
of  Pre-Raphaelite  art,  every  lank  figure  looking  as  if 
it  had  been  stretched  on  a  rack,  before  which  the 
Anglo-Saxon  writhes  because  he  ought  to  like  them 
and  cannot  for  the  soul  of  him.  It  is  a  pretty  little 
village,  cuddled  down  among  the  hills,  the  clay  soil 
of  which  gives  them,  to  a  pilgrim  from  the  parched 
gravelly  inland,  a  look  of  almost  fanatical  green. 
The  fields  are  broad,  and  wholly  given  up  to  the  graz 
ing  of  cattle  and  sheep,  which  dotted  them  thickly 


178  FIRESIDE    TRAVELS. 

in  the  breezy  sunshine.  The  open  doors  of  a  barn, 
through  which  the  wind  flowed  rustling  the  loose  locks 
of  the  mow,  attracted  us.  Swallows  swam  in  and  out 
with  level  wings,  or  crossed  each  other,  twittering  in 
the  dusky  mouth  of  their  hay-scented  cavern.  Two 
or  three  hens  and  a  cock  (none  of  your  gawky  Shang 
hais,  long-legged  as  a  French  peasant  on  his  stilts, 
but  the  true  red  cock  of  the  ballads,  full-chested,  coral- 
combed,  fountain -tailed)  were  inquiring  for  hay-seed 
in  the  background.  What  frame  in  what  gallery  ever 
enclosed  such  a  picture  as  is  squared  within  the 
groundsel,  side-posts,  and  lintel  of  a  barn-door, 
whether  for  eye  or  fancy  ?  The  shining  floor  suggests 
the  flail-beat  of  autumn,  that  pleasantest  of  monoto 
nous  sounds,  and  the  later  husking-bee,  where  the  lads 
and  lasses  sit  round  laughingly  busy  under  the  swing 
ing  lantern. 

Here  we  found  a  fine,  stalwart  fellow  shearing  sheep. 
This  was  something  new  to  us,  and  we  watched  him 
for  some  time  with  many  questions,  which  he  an 
swered  with  off-hand  good-nature.  Going  away,  I 
thanked  him  for  having  taught  me  something.  He 
laughed,  and  said,  "Ef  you  '11  take  off  them  gloves  o' 
yourn,  I  '11  give  ye  a  try  at  the  practical  part  on  't." 
He  was  in  the  right  of  it.  I  never  saw  anything  hand 
somer  than  those  brown  hands  of  his,  on  which  the 
sinews  stood  out,  as  he  handled  his  shears,  tight  as  a 
drawn  bow-string.  How  much  more  admirable  is 
this  tawny  vigor,  the  badge  of  fruitful  toil,  than  the 
crop  of  early  muscle  that  heads  out  under  the  forcing- 
glass  of  the  gymnasium !  Foreigners  do  not  feel  easy 


ITAL  Y.  1 79 

in  America,  because  there  are  no  peasants  and  under 
lings  here  to  be  humble  to  them.  The  truth  is,  that 
none  but  those  who  feel  themselves  only  artificially 
the  superiors  of  our  sturdy  yeomen  see  in  their  self- 
respect  any  uncomfortable  assumption  of  equality.  It 
is  the  last  thing  the  yeoman  is  likely  to  think  of.  They 
do  not  like  the  "I  say,  ma  good  fellah"  kind  of  style, 
and  commonly  contrive  to  snub  it.  They  do  not  value 
condescension  at  the  same  rate  that  he  does  who 
vouchsafes  it  to  them.  If  it  be  a  good  thing  for  an 
English  duke  that  he  has  no  social  superiors,  I  think 
it  can  hardly  be  bad  for  a  Yankee  farmer.  If  it  be  a 
bad  thing  for  the  duke  that  he  meets  none  but  infe 
riors,  it  cannot  harm  the  farmer  much  that  he  never 
has  the  chance.  At  any  rate,  there  was  no  thought 
of  incivility  in  my  friend  Hobbinol's  jibe  at  my  kids, 
only  a  kind  of  jolly  superiority.  But  I  did  not  like  to 
be  taken  for  a  city  gent,  so  I  told  him  I  was  born  and 
bred  in  the  country  as  well  as  he.  He  laughed  again, 
and  said,  "Wai,  anyhow,  I've  the  advantage  of  ye, 
for  you  never  see  a  sheep  shore,  an'  I  've  ben  to  the 
Opery  and  shore  sheep  myself  into  the  bargain."  He 
told  me  that  there  were  two  hundred  sheep  in  the 
town,  and  that  his  father  could  remember  when  there 
were  four  times  as  many.  The  sea  laps  and  mumbles 
the  soft  roots  of  the  hills,  and  licks  away  an  acre  or 
two  of  good  pasturage  every  season.  The  father,  an 
old  man  of  eighty,  stood  looking  on,  pleased  with  his 
son's  wit,  and  brown  as  if  the  Passawampscot  fogs 
were  walnut-juice. 

We  dined  at  a  little  tavern,  with  a  gilded  ball  hung 


180  FIRESIDE    TRAVELS. 

out  for  sign,  —  a  waif,  I  fancy,  from  some  shipwreck. 
The  landlady  was  a  brisk,  amusing  little  body,  who 
soon  informed  us  that  her  husband  was  own  cousin  to 
a  Senator  of  the  United  States.  A  very  elaborate 
sampler  in  the  parlor,  in  which  an  obelisk  was  wept 
over  by  a  somewhat  costly  willow  in  silver  thread, 
recorded  the  virtues  of  the  Senator's  maternal  grand-' 
father  and  grandmother.  After  dinner,  as  we  sat 
smoking  our  pipes  on  the  piazza,  our  good  hostess 
brought  her  little  daughter,  and  made  her  repeat 
verses  utterly  unintelligible,  but  conjecturally  moral, 
and  certainly  depressing.  Once  set  agoing,  she  ran 
down  like  an  alarm-clock.  We  awaited  her  subsi 
dence  as  that  of  a  shower  or  other  inevitable  natural 
phenomenon.  More  refreshing  was  the  talk  of  a  tall 
returned  Californian,  who  told  us,  among  other  things, 
that  "he  should  n't  mind  Panahmy's  bein'  sunk,  oilers 
providin'  there  warn't  none  of  our  folks  onto  it  when 
it  went  down !" 

Our  landlady's  exhibition  of  her  daughter  puts  me 
in  mind  of  something  similar,  yet  oddly  different, 
which  happened  to  Storg  and  me  at  Palestrina.  We 
happened  to  praise  the  beauty  of  our  stout  locandiera? s 
little  girl.  "Ah,  she  is  nothing  to  her  elder  sister  just 
married,"  said  the  mother.  "If  you  could  see  her! 
She  is  bella,  bella,  BELLA!"  We  thought  no  more  of 
it ;  but  after  dinner,  the  good  creature,  with  no  warn 
ing  but  a  tap  at  the  door  and  a  humble  con  permesso, 
brought  her  in  all  her  bravery,  and  showed  her  off 
to  us  as  simply  and  naturally  as  if  she  had  been  a 
picture.  The  girl,  who  was  both  beautiful  and  mod- 


ITALY.  l8l 

est,  bore  it  with  the  dignified  aplomb  of  a  statue.  She 
knew  we  admired  her,  and  liked  it,  but  with  the  in 
difference  of  a  rose.  There  is  something  very  charm 
ing,  I  think,  in  this  wholly  unsophisticated  conscious 
ness,  with  no  alloy  of  vanity  or  coquetry. 


A  FEW  BITS   OF   ROMAN  MOSAIC. 

BYRON  hit  the  white,  which  he  often  shot  very  wide 
of  in  his  Italian  Guide-Book,  when  he  called  Rome 
"my  country."  But  it  is  a  feeling  which  comes  to 
one  slowly,  and  is  absorbed  into  one's  system  during 
a  long  residence.  Perhaps  one  does  not  feel  it  till  he 
has  gone  away,  as  things  always  seem  fairer  when 
we  look  back  at  them,  and  it  is  out  of  that  inaccessible 
tower  of  the  past  that  Longing  leans  and  beckons. 
However  it  be,  Fancy  gets  a  rude  shock  at  entering 
Rome,  which  it  takes  her  a  great  while  to  get  over. 
She  has  gradually  made  herself  believe  that  she  is  ap 
proaching  a  city  of  the  dead,  and  has  seen  nothing  on 
the  road  from  Civita  Vecchia  to  disturb  that  theory. 
Milestones,  with  "Via  Aurelia"  carved  upon  them, 
have  confirmed  it.  It  is  eighteen  hundred  years  ago 
with  her,  and  on  the  dial  of  time  the  shadow  has  not 
yet  trembled  over  the  line  that  marks  the  beginning  of 
the  first  century.  She  arrives  at  the  gate,  and  a  dirty, 
blue  man,  with  a  cocked  hat  and  a  white  sword-belt, 
asks  for  her  passport.  Then  another  man,  as  like 
the  first  as  one  spoon  is  like  its  fellow,  and  having, 
like  him,  the  look  of  being  run  in  a  mould,  tells  her 
that  she  must  go  to  the  custom-house.  It  is  as  if  a 
ghost,  who  had  scarcely  recovered  from  the  jar  of 
hearing  Charon  say,  "I  '11  trouble  you  for  your 
182 


A   FEW  BITS    OF  ROMAN  MOSAIC.     183 

obolus,  if  you  please,"  should  have  his  portmanteau 
seized  by  the  Stygian  tide-waiters  to  be  searched.  Is 
there  anything,  then,  contraband  of  death  ?  asks  poor 
Fancy  of  herself. 

But  it  is  the  misfortune  (or  the  safeguard)  of  the 
English  mind  that  Fancy  is  always  an  outlaw,  liable 
to  be  laid  by  the  heels  wherever  Constable  Common 
Sense  can  catch  her.  She  submits  quietly  as  the 
postilion  cries,  "Yee-ip!"  and  cracks  his  whip,  and 
the  rattle  over  the  pavement  begins,  struggles  a  mo 
ment  when  the  pillars  of  the  colonnade  stalk  ghostly 
by  in  the  moonlight,  and  finally  gives  up  all  for  lost 
when  she  sees  Bernini's  angels  polking  on  their  pedes 
tals  along  the  sides  of  the  Ponte  Sant'  Angelo  with  the 
emblems  of  the  Passion  in  their  arms. 

You  are  in  Rome,  of  course ;  the  sbirro  said  so,  the 
doganiere  bowed  it,  and  the  postilion  swore  it;  but  it 
is  a  Rome  of  modern  houses,  muddy  streets,  dingy 
caffh,  cigar-smokers,  and  French  soldiers,  the  mani 
fest  junior  of  Florence.  And  yet  full  of  anachronisms, 
for  in  a  little  while  you  pass  the  column  of  Antoninus, 
find  the  Dogana  in  an  ancient  temple  whose  furrowed 
pillars  show  through  the  recent  plaster,  and  feel  as 
if  you  saw  the  statue  of  Minerva  in  a  Paris  bonnet. 
You  are  driven  to  a  hotel  where  all  the  barbarian 
languages  are  spoken  in  one  wild  conglomerate  by  the 
Commissionnaire,  have  your  dinner  wholly  in  French, 
and  wake  the  next  morning  dreaming  of  the  Tenth 
Legion,  to  see  a  regiment  of  Chasseurs  de  Vincennes 
trotting  by. 

For  a  few  days  one  undergoes  a  tremendous  recoil. 


1 84  FIRESIDE    TRAVELS. 

Other  places  have  a  distinct  meaning.  London  is 
the  visible  throne  of  King  Stock;  Versailles  is  the 
apotheosis  of  one  of  Louis  XIV. 's  cast  periwigs; 
Florence  and  Pisa  are  cities  of  the  Middle  Ages ;  but 
Rome  seems  to  be  a  parody  upon  itself.  The  ticket 
that  admits  you  to  see  the  starting  of  the  horses  at 
carnival  has  S.  P.  Q.  R.  at  the  top  of  it,  and  you  give 
the  custode  a  paul  for  showing  you  the  wolf  that  suckled 
Romulus  and  Remus.  The  Senatus  seems  to  be  a 
score  or  so  of  elderly  gentlemen  in  scarlet,  and  the 
Populusque  Romanus  a  swarm  of  nasty  friars. 

But  there  is  something  more  than  mere  earth  in  the 
spot  where  great  deeds  have  been  done.  The  sur 
veyor  cannot  give  the  true  dimensions  of  Marathon 
or  Lexington,  for  they  are  not  reducible  to  square 
acres.  Dead  glory  and  greatness  leave  ghosts  behind 
them,  and  departed  empire  has  a  metempsychosis,  if 
nothing  else  has.  Its  spirit  haunts  the  grave,  and 
waits  and  waits,  till  at  last  it  finds  a  body  to  its  mind, 
slips  into  it,  and  historians  moralize  on  the  fluctuation 
of  human  affairs.  By  and  by,  perhaps,  enough  ob 
servations  will  have  been  recorded  to  assure  us  that 
these  recurrences  are  firmamental,  and  historionomers 
will  have  measured  accurately  the  sidereal  years  of 
races.  When  that  is  once  done,  events 'will  move 
with  the  quiet  of  an  orrery,  and  nations  will  consent 
to  their  peridynamis  and  apodynamis  with  planetary 
composure. 

Be  this  as  it  may,  you  become  gradually  aware  of 
the  presence  of  this  imperial  ghost  among  the  Roman 
ruins.  You  receive  hints  and  startles  of  it  through 


A   FEW  BITS    OF  ROMAN  MOSAIC.     185 

the  senses  first,  as  the  horse  always  shies  at  the  appari 
tion  before  the  rider  can  see  it.  Then,  little  by  little, 
you  become  assured  of  it,  and  seem  to  hear  the  brush 
of  its  mantle  through  some  hall  of  Caracalla's  baths, 
or  one  of  those  other  solitudes  of  Rome.  And  those 
solitudes  are  without  a  parallel ;  for  it  is  not  the  mere 
absence  of  man,  but  the  sense  of  his  departure,  that 
makes  a  profound  loneliness.  Musing  upon  them, 
you  cannot  but  feel  the  shadow  of  that  disembodied 
empire,  and,  remembering  how  the  foundations  of  the 
Capitol  were  laid  where  a  head  was  turned  up,  you 
are  impelled  to  prophesy  that  the  Idea  of  Rome  will 
incarnate  itself  again  as  soon  as  an  Italian  brain  is 
found  large  enough  to  hold  it,  and  to  give  unity  to 
those  discordant  members. 

But,  though  I  intend  to  observe  no  regular  pattern 
in  my  Roman  mosaic,  which  will  resemble  more  what 
one  finds  in  his  pockets  after  a  walk,  —  a  pagan  cube 
or  two  from  the  palaces  of  the  Caesars,  a  few  Byzan 
tine  bits,  given  with  many  shrugs  of  secrecy  by  a  lay 
brother  at  San  Paolo  fuori  le  mura,  and  a  few  more 
(quite  as  ancient)  from  the  manufactory  at  the  Vati 
can,  —  it  seems  natural  to  begin  what  one  has  to  say 
of  Rome  with  something  about  St.  Peter's;  for  the 
saint  sits  at  the  gate  here  as  well  as  in  Paradise. 

It  is  very  common  for  people  to  say  that  they  are 
disappointed  in  the  first  sight  of  St.  Peter's  ;  and  one 
hears  much  the  same  about  Niagara.  I  cannot  help 
thinking  that  the  fault  is  in  themselves ;  and  that  if  the 
church  and  the  cataract  were  in  the  habit  of  giving 
away  their  thoughts  with  that  rash  generosity  which 


1 86  FIRESIDE    TRAVELS, 

characterizes  tourists,  they  might  perhaps  say  of  their 
visitors,  "Well,  if  you  are  those  men  of  whom  we  have 
heard  so  much,  we  are  a  little  disappointed,  to  tell  the 
truth!"  The  refined  tourist  expects  somewhat  too 
much  when  he  takes  it  for  granted  that  St.  Peter's  will 
at  once  decorate  him  with  the  order  of  imagination, 
just  as  Victoria  knights  an  alderman  when  he  presents 
an  address.  Or  perhaps  he  has  been  getting  up  a  little 
architecture  on  the  road  from  Florence,  and  is  dis 
comfited  because  he  does  not  know  whether  he  ought 
to  be  pleased  or  not,  which  is  very  much  as  if  he  should 
wait  to  be  told  whether  it  was  fresh  water  or  salt  which 
makes  the  exhaustless  grace  of  Niagara's  emerald 
curve,  before  he  benignly  consented  to  approve.  It 
would  be  wiser,  perhaps,  for  him  to  consider  whether, 
if  Michael  Angelo  had  had  the  building  of  him,  his 
own  personal  style  would  not  have  been  more  im 
pressive. 

It  is  not  to  be  doubted  that  minds  are  of  as  many 
different  orders  as  cathedrals,  and  that  the  Gothic 
imagination  is  vexed  and  discommoded  in  the  vain 
endeavor  to  flatten  its  pinnacles,  and  fit  itself  into  the 
round  Roman  arches.  But  if  it  be  impossible  for  a 
man  to  like  everything,  it  is  quite  possible  for  him  to 
avoid  being  driven  mad  by  what  does  not  please  him; ' 
nay,  it  is  the  imperative  duty  of  a  wise  man  to  find 
out  what  that  secret  is  which  makes  a  thing  pleasing 
to  another.  In  approaching  St.  Peter's,  one  must 
take  his  Protestant  shoes  off  his  feet,  and  leave  them 
behind  him,  in  the  Piazza  Rusticucci.  Otherwise  the 
great  Basilica,  with  those  outstretching  colonnades 


A    FEW  BITS    OF  ROMAN  MOSAIC.      l8/ 

of  Bramante,  will  seem  to  be  a  bloated  spider  lying 
in  wait  for  him,  the  poor  Reformed  fly.  As  he  lifts 
the  heavy  leathern  flapper  over  the  door,  and  is  dis 
charged  into  the  interior  by  its  impetuous  recoil,  let 
him  disburden  his  mind  altogether  of  stone  and  mor 
tar,  and  think  only  that  he  is  standing  before  the 
throne  of  a  dynasty  which,  even  in  its  decay,  is  the 
most  powerful  the  world  ever  saw.  Mason-work  is 
all  very  well  in  itself,  but  it  has  nothing  to  do  with  the 
affair  at  present  in  hand. 

Suppose  that  a  man  in  pouring  down  a  glass  of 
claret  could  drink  the  South  of  France,  that  he  could 
so  disintegrate  the  wine  by  the  force  of  imagination 
as  to  taste  in  it  all  the  clustered  beauty  and  bloom  of 
the  grape,  all  the  dance  and  song  and  sunburnt  jollity 
of  the  vintage.  Or  suppose  that  in  eating  bread  he 
could  transubstantiate  it  with  the  tender  blade  of 
spring,  the  gleam-flitted  corn-ocean  of  summer,  the 
royal  autumn,  with  its  golden  beard,  and  the  merry 
funerals  of  harvest.  This  is  what  the  great  poets  do 
for  us,  we  cannot  tell  how,  with  their  fatally-chosen 
words,  crowding  the  happy  veins  of  language  again 
with  all  the  life  and  meaning  and  music  that  had  been 
dribbling  away  from  them  since  Adam.  And  this  is 
what  the  Roman  Church  does  for  religion,  feeding 
the  soul  not  with  the  essential  religious  sentiment,  not 
with  a  drop  or  two  of  the  tincture  of  worship,  but 
making  us  feel  one  by  one  all  those  original  elements 
of  which  worship  is  composed;  not  bringing  the  end 
to  us,  but  making  us  pass  over  and  feel  beneath  our 
feet  all  the  golden  rounds  of  the  ladder  by  which  the 


1 88  FIRESIDE    TRAVELS. 

climbing  generations  have  reached  that  end;  not 
handing  us  dryly  a  dead  and  extinguished  Q.E.D., 
but  letting  it  rather  declare  itself  by  the  glory  with 
which  it  interfuses  the  incense-clouds  of  wonder  and 
aspiration  and  beauty  in  which  it  is  veiled.  The 
secret  of  her  power  is  typified  in  the  mystery  of  the 
Real  Presence.  She  is  the  only  church  that  has  been 
loyal  to  the  heart  and  soul  of  man,  that  has  clung  to 
her  faith  in  the  imagination,  and  that  would  not  give 
over  her  symbols  and  images  and  sacred  vessels  to  the 
perilous  keeping  of  the  iconoclast  Understanding. 
She  has  never  lost  sight  of  the  truth,  that  the  product 
human  nature  is  composed  of  the  sum  of  flesh  and 
spirit,  and  has  accordingly  regarded  both  this  world 
and  the  next  as  the  constituents  of  that  other  world 
which  we  possess  by  faith.  She  knows  that  poor 
Panza,  the  body,  has  his  kitchen  longings  and  visions, 
as  well  as  Quixote,  the  soul,  his  ethereal,  and  has  wit 
enough  to  supply  him  with  the  visible,  tangible  raw 
material  of  imagination.  She  is  the  only  poet  among 
the  churches,  and,  while  Protestantism  is  unrolling  a 
pocket  surveyor' s-plan,  takes  her  votary  to  the  pin 
nacle  of  her  temple,  and  shows  him  meadow,  upland, 
and  tillage,  cloudy  heaps  of  forest  clasped  with  the 
river's  jewelled  arm,  hillsides  white  with  the  perpetual 
snow  of  flocks,  and,  beyond  all,  the  interminable 
heave  of  the  unknown  ocean.  Her  empire  may  be 
traced  upon  the  map  by  the  boundaries  of  races;  the 
understanding  is  her  great  foe ;  and  it  is  the  people 
whose  vocabulary  was  incomplete  till  they  had  in 
vented  the  arch -word  Humbug  that  defies  her.  With 


A    FEW  BITS   OF  ROMAN  MOSAIC.     189 

that  leaden  bullet  John  Bull  can  bring  down  Senti 
ment  when  she  flies  her  highest.  And  the  more  the 
pity  for  John  Bull.  One  of  these  days  some  one 
whose  eyes  are  sharp  enough  will  read  in  the  Times  a 
standing  advertisement,  —  "Lost,  strayed,  or  stolen 
from  the  farm-yard  of  the  subscriber  the  valuable 
horse  Pegasus.  Probably  has  on  him  part  of  a  new 
plough-harness,  as  that  is  also  missing.  A  suitable 
reward,  etc.  J.  BULL." 

Protestantism  reverses  the  poetical  process  I  have 
spoken  of  above,  and  gives  not  even  the  bread  of  life, 
but  instead  of  it  the  alcohol,  or  distilled  intellectual 
result.  This  was  very  well  so  long  as  Protestantism 
continued  to  protest;  for  enthusiasm  sublimates  the 
understanding  into  imagination.  But  now  that  she 
also  has  become  an  establishment,  she  begins  to  per 
ceive  that  she  made  a  blunder  in  trusting  herself  to 
the  intellect  alone.  She  is  beginning  to  feel  her  way 
back  again,  as  one  notices  in  Puseyism,  and  other 
such  hints.  One  is  put  upon  reflection  when  he  sees 
burly  Englishmen,  who  dine  on  beef  and  porter  every 
day,  marching  proudly  through  Saint  Peter's  on  Palm 
Sunday,  with  those  frightfully  artificial  palm-branches 
in  their  hands.  Romanism  wisely  provides  for  the 
childish  in  men. 

Therefore  I  say  again,  that  one  must  lay  aside  his 
Protestantism  in  order  to  have  a  true  feeling  of  Saint 
Peter's.  Here  in  Rome  is  the  laboratory  of  that  mys 
terious  enchantress,  who  has  known  so  well  how  to 
adapt  herself  to  all  the  wants,  or,  if  you  will,  the  weak 
nesses  of  human  nature,  making  the  retirement  of  the 


1 90  FIRESIDE    TRAVELS. 

convent-cell  a  merit  to  the  solitary,  the  scourge  or  the 
fast  a  piety  to  the  ascetic,  the  enjoyment  of  pomp  and 
music  and  incense  a  religious  act  in  the  sensual,  and 
furnishing  for  the  very  soul  itself  a  confidante  in  that 
ear  of  the  dumb  confessional,  where  it  may  securely 
disburden  itself  of  its  sins  and  sorrows.  And  the 
dome  of  St.  Peter's  is  the  magic  circle  within  which 
jshe  works  her  most  potent  incantations.  I  confess 
(that  I  could  not  enter  it  alone  without  a  kind  of  awe. 

But,  setting  entirely  aside  the  effect  of  this  church 
upon  the  imagination,  it  is  wonderful,  if  one  con 
sider  it  only  materially.  Michael  Angelo  created  a 
new  world  in  which  everything  was  colossal,  and  it 
might  seem  that  he  built  this  as  a  fit  temple  for  those 
gigantic  figures  with  which  he  peopled  it  to  worship  in. 
Here  his  Moses  should  be  high-priest,  the  service 
should  be  chanted  by  his  prophets  and  sibyls,  and 
those  great  pagans  should  be  brought  hither  from 
San  Lorenzo  in  Florence,  to  receive  baptism. 

However  unsatisfactory  in  other  matters,  statistics 
are  of  service  here.  I  have  seen  a  refined  tourist  who 
entered,  Murray  in  hand,  sternly  resolved  to  have 
St.  Peter's  look  small,  brought  to  terms  at  once  by 
being  told  that  the  canopy  over  the  high  altar  (looking 
very  like  a  four-post  bedstead)  was  ninety-eight  feet 
high.  If  he  still  obstinates  himself,  he  is  finished  by 
being  made  to  measure  one  of  the  marble  putti,  which 
look  like  rather  stoutish  babies,  and  are  found  to  be 
six  feet,  every  sculptor's  son  of  them.  This  ceremony 
is  the  more  interesting,  as  it  enables  him  to  satisfy  the 
guide  of  his  proficiency  in  the  Italian  tongue  by  calling 


A    FEW  BITS    OF  ROMAN  MOSAIC.      19 1 

them  putty  at  every  convenient  opportunity.  Other 
wise  both  he  and  his  assistant  terrify  each  other  into 
mutual  unintelligibility  with  that  lingua  franca  of  the 
English-speaking  traveller,  which  is  supposed  to  bear 
some  remote  affinity  to  the  French  language,  of  which 
both  parties  are  as  ignorant  as  an  American  Am 
bassador. 

Murray  gives  all  these  little  statistical  nudges  to  the 
Anglo-Saxon  imagination ;  but  he  knows  that  its  finest 
nerves  are  in  the  pocket,  and  accordingly  ends  by 
\  telling  you  how  much  the  church  cost.  I  forget  how 
\ much  it  is;  but  it  cannot  be  more,  I  fancy,  than  the 
[English  national  debt  multiplied  into  itself  three  hun 
dred  and  sixty -five  times.  If  the  pilgrim,  honestly 
anxious  for  a  sensation,  will  work  out  this  little  sum, 
he  will  be  sure  to  receive  all  that  enlargement  of  the 
imaginative  faculty  which  arithmetic  can  give  him. 
Perhaps  the  most  dilating  fact,  after  all,  is  that  this 
architectural  world  has  also  a  separate  atmosphere, 
distinct  from  that  of  Rome  by  some  ten  degrees,  and 
unvarying  through  the  year. 

I  think  that,  on  the  whole,  Jonathan  gets  ready  to 
be  pleased  with  St.  Peter's  sooner  than  Bull.  Ac 
customed  to  our  lath  and  plaster  expedients  for 
churches,  the  portable  sentry-boxes  of  Zion,  mere 
solidity  and  permanence  are  pleasurable  in  them 
selves;  and  if  he  get  grandeur  also,  he  has  Gospel 
measure.  Besides,  it  is  easy  for  Jonathan  to  travel. 
He  is  one  drop  of  a  fluid  mass,  who  knows  where  his 
home  is  to-day,  but  can  make  no  guess  of  where  it 
may  be  to-morrow.  Even  in  a  form  of  government 


I Q2  FIRESIDE    TRAVELS. 

he  only  takes  lodgings  for  the  night,  and  is  ready  to 
pay  his  bill  and  be  off  in  the  morning.  He  should  take 
his  motto  from  Bishop  Golias's  "  Mihi  est  proposilum 
in  tabernd  mori"  though  not  in  the  sufistic  sense  of 
that  misunderstood  Churchman.  But  Bull  can  sel 
dom  be  said  to  travel  at  all,  since  the  first  step  of  a 
true  traveller  is  out  of  himself.  He  plays  cricket  and 
hunts  foxes  on  the  Campagna,  makes  entries  in  his 
betting-book  while  the  Pope  is  giving  his  benediction, 
and  points  out  Lord  Calico  to  you  awfully  during  the 
Sistine  Miserere.  If  he  let  his  beard  grow,  it  always 
has  a  startled  air,  as  if  it  suddenly  remembered  its 
treason  to  Sheffield  and  only  makes  him  look  more 
English  than  ever.  A  masquerade  is  impossible,  to 
him,  and  his  fancy  balls  are  the  solemnest  facts  in  the 
world.  Accordingly,  he  enters  St.  Peter's  with  the 
dome  of  St.  Paul's  drawn  tight  over  his  eyes,  like  a 
•criminal's  cap,  and  ready  for  instant  execution  rather 
[than  confess  that  the  English  Wren  had  not  a  stronger 
jwing  than  the  Italian  Angel.  I  like  this  in  Bull,  and 
it  renders  him  the  pleasantest  of  travelling  com 
panions;  for  he  makes  you  take  England  along  with 
you,  and  thus  you  have  two  countries  at  once.  And 
one  must  not  forget  in  an  Italian  inn  that  it  is  to  Bull 
he  owes  the  clean  napkins  and  sheets,  and  the  privi 
lege  of  his  morning  bath.  Nor  should  Bull  himself 
Jail  to  remember  that  he  ate  with  his  fingers  till  the 
Italian  gave  him  a  fork. 

Browning  has  given  the  best  picture  of  St.  Peter's 
on  a  festival  day,  sketching  it  with  a  few  verses  in  his 
large  style.  And  doubtless  it  is  the  scene  of  the 


A    FF.W  BITS    OF  ROMAN  MOSAIC.      193 

grandest  spectacles  which  the  world  can  see  in  these 
latter  days.  Those  Easter  pomps,  where  the  antique 
world  marches  visibly  before  you  in  gilded  mail  and 
crimson  doublet,  refresh  the  eyes,  and  are  good  so 
long  as  they  continue  to  be  merely  spectacle.  But 
if  one  think  for  a  moment  of  the  servant  of  the  ser 
vants  of  the  Lord  in  cloth  of  gold,  borne  on  men's 
shoulders,  or  of  the  children  receiving  the  blessing  of 
their  Holy  Father,  with  a  regiment  of  French  soldiers 
to  protect  the  father  from  the  children,  it  becomes  a 
little  sad.  If  one  would  feel  the  full  meaning  of  thoss 
ceremonials,  however,  let  him  consider  the  coinci 
dences  between  the  Romish  and  the  Buddhist  forms 
of  worship,  and  remembering  that  the  Pope  is  the 
direct  heir,  through  the  Pontifex  Maximus,  of  rites 
that  were  ancient  when  the  Etruscans  were  modern,  he 
will  look  with  a  feeling  deeper  than  curiosity  upon 
forms  which  record  the  earliest  conquests  of  the  In 
visible,  the  first  triumphs  of  mind  over  muscle. 

To  me  the  noon  silence  and  solitude  of  St.  Peter's 
were  most  impressive,  when  the  sunlight,  made  visible 
1  by  the  mist  of  the  ever-burning  lamps  in  which  it  was 
entangled,  hovered  under  the  dome  like  the  holy  dove 
goldenly  descending.  Very  grand  also  is  the  twilight, 
when  all  outlines  melt  into  mysterious  vastness,  and 
the  arches  expand  and  lose  themselves  in  the  deepen 
ing  shadow.  Then,  standing  in  the  desert  transept, 
you  hear  the  far-off  vespers  swell  and  die  like  low 
breathings  of  the  sea  on  some  conjectured  shore. 

As  the  sky  is  supposed  to  scatter  its  golden  star- 
pollen  once  every  year  in  meteoric  showers,  so  the 


194  FIRESIDE    TRAVELS. 

dome  of  St.  Peter's  has  its  annual  efflorescence  of  fire. 
This  illumination  is  the  great  show  of  Papal  Rome. 
Just  after  sunset,  I  stood  upon  the  Trinita  dei  Monti 
and  saw  the  little  drops  of  pale  light  creeping  down 
ward  from  the  cross  and  trickling  over  the  dome. 
Then,  as  the  sky  darkened  behind,  it  seemed  as  if  the 
setting  sun  had  lodged  upon  the  horizon  and  there 
burned  out,  the  fire  still  clinging  to  his  massy  ribs. 
And  when  the  change  from  the  silver  to  the  golden 
illumination  came,  it  was  as  if  the  breeze  had  fanned 
the  embers  into  flame  again. 

Bitten  with  the  Anglo-Saxon  gadfly  that  drives  us 
all  to  disenchant  artifice,  and  see  the  springs  that  fix 
it  on,  I  walked  down  to  get  a  nearer  look.  My  next 
glimpse  was  from  the  bridge  of  Sant'  Angelo;  but 
there  was  no  time  nor  space  for  pause.  Foot-pas 
sengers  crowding  hither  and  thither,  as  they  heard 
the  shout  of  Avanti!  from  the  mile  of  coachmen 
behind,  dragoon -horses  curtsying  backward  just 
where  there  were  most  women  and  children  to  be 
flattened,  and  the  dome  drawing  all  eyes  and  thoughts 
the  wrong  way,  made  a  hubbub  to  be  got  out  of  at  any 
desperate  hazard.  Besides,  one  could  not  help  feeling 
nervously  hurried;  for  it  seemed  quite  plain  to  every 
body  that  this  starry  apparition  must  be  as  momentary 
as  it  was  wonderful,  and  that  we  should  find  it  van 
ished  when  we  reached  the  piazza.  But  suddenly 
you  stand  in  front  of  it,  and  see  the  soft  travertine  of 
the  front  suffused  with  a  tremulous,  glooming  glow,  a 
mildened  glory,  as  if  the  building  breathed,  and  so 
transmuted  its  shadow  into  soft  pulses  of  light 


A    FEW  BITS    OF  ROMAN  MOSAIC.     195 

After  wondering  long  enough,  I  went  back  to  the 
Pincio,  and  watched  it  for  an  hour  longer.  But  I  did 
not  wish  to  see  it  go  out.  It  seemed  better  to  go  home 
and  leave  it  still  trembling,  so  that  I  could  fancy  a 
kind  of  permanence  in  it,  and  half  believe  I  should 
find  it  there  again  some  lucky  evening.  Before 
leaving  it  altogether,  I  went  away  to  cool  my  eyes  with 
darkness,  and  came  back  several  times;  and  every 
time  it  wras  a  new  miracle,  the  more  so  that  it  was  a 
human  piece  of  faery-work.  Beautiful  as  fire  is  in 
itself,  I  suspect  that  part  of  the  pleasure  is  meta 
physical,  and  that  the  sense  of  playing  with  an  ele 
ment  which  can  be  so  terrible  adds  to  the  zest  of  the 
spectacle.  And  then  fire  is  not  the  least  degraded  by 
it,  because  it  is  not  utilized.  If  beauty  were  in  use, 
the  factory  would  add  a  grace  to  the  river,  and  we 
should  turn  from  the  fire-writing  on  the  wall  of 
heaven  to  look  at  a  message  printed  by  the  magnetic 
telegraph.  There  may  be  a  beauty  in  the  use  itself; 
but  utilization  is  always  downward,  and  it  is  this  feel 
ing  that  makes  Schiller's  Pegasus  in  yoke  so  univer 
sally  pleasing.  So  long  as  the  curse  of  work  clings  to 
man,  he  will  see  beauty  only  in  play.  The  capital  of 
the  most  frugal  commonwealth  in  the  world  burns 
up  five  thousand  dollars  a  year  in  gunpowder,  and 
nobody  murmurs.  Provident  Judas  wished  to  utilize 
the  ointment,  but  the  Teacher  would  rather  that  it 
should  be  wasted  in  poem. 

The  best  lesson  in  aesthetics  I  ever  got  (and,  like 
most  good  lessons,  it  fell  from  the  lips  of  no  regular 
professor)  was  from  an  Irishman  on  the  day  the 


196  FIRESIDE    TRAVELS. 

Nymph  Cochituate  was  formally  introduced  to  the 
people  of  Boston.  I  made  one  with  other  rustics  in 
the  streets,  admiring  the  dignitaries  in  coaches  with 
as  much  Christian  charity  as  is  consistent  with  an 
elbow  in  the  pit  of  your  stomach  and  a  heel  on  that 
toe  which  is  your  only  inheritance  from  two  excellent 
grandfathers.  Among  other  allegorical  phenomena, 
there  came  along  what  I  should  have  called  a  hay-cart, 
if  I  had  not  known  it  was  a  triumphal  car,  filled  with 
that  fairest  variety  of  mortal  grass  which  with  us  is 
apt  to  spindle  so  soon  into  a  somewhat  sapless  woman 
hood.  Thirty-odd  young  maidens  in  white  gowns, 
with  blue  sashes  and  pink  wreaths  of  French  crape, 
represented  the  United  States.  (How  shall  we  limit  our 
number,  by  the  way,  if  ever  Utah  be  admitted  ?)  The 
ship,  the  printing-press,  even  the  wondrous  train  of 
express-wagons,  and  other  solid  bits  of  civic  fantasy, 
had  left  my  Hibernian  neighbor  unmoved.  But  this 
brought  him  down.  Turning  to  me,  as  the  most  ap 
preciative  public  for  the  moment,  with  face  of  as  much 
delight  as  if  his  head  had  been  broken,  he  cried, 
"Now  this  is  raly  beautiful!  Tothally  regyardless 
uv  expinse!"  Methought  my  shirt-sleeved  lecturer 
on  the  Beautiful  had  hit  at  least  one  nail  full  on  the 
head.  Voltaire  but  epigrammatized  the  same  thought 
when  he  said,  Le  superflu,  chose  trh-necessaire. 

As  for  the  ceremonies  of  the  Church,  one  need  not 
waste  time  in  seeing  many  of  them.  There  is  a  dreary 
sameness  in  them,  and  one  can  take  an  hour  here 
and  an  hour  there,  as  it  pleases  him,  just  as  sure  of 


A    FEW  BITS    OF  ROMAN  MOSAIC.     197 

finding  the  same  pattern  as  he  would  be  in  the  first 
or  last  yard  of  a  roll  of  printed  cotton.  For  myself,  I 
do  not  like  to  go  and  look  with  mere  curiosity  at  what 
is  sacred  and  solemn  to  others.  To  how  many  these 
Roman  shows  are  sacred,  I  cannot  guess;  but  cer 
tainly  the  Romans  do  not  value  them  much.  I 
walked  out  to  the  grotto  of  Egeria  on  Easter  Sunday? 
that  I  might  not  be  tempted  down  to  St.  Peter's  to 
see  the  mockery  of  Pio  Nono's  benediction.  It  is 
certainly  Christian,  for  he  blesses  them  that  curse  him, 
and  does  all  the  good  which  the  waving  of  his  fingers 
can  do  to  people  who  would  use  him  despitefully  if 
they  had  the  chance.  I  told  an  Italian  servant  she 
might  have  the  day;  but  she  said  she  did  not  care 
for  it. 

"But,"  urged  I,  ''will  you  not  go  to  receive  the 
blessing  of  the  Holy  Father?" 

"No,  sir." 

"Do  you  not  wish  it?" 

"Not  in  the  least:  his  blessing  would  do  me  no 
good.  If  I  get  the  blessing  of  Heaven,  it  will  serve 
my  turn." 

There  were  three  families  of  foreigners  in  our  house, 
and  I  believe  none  of  the  Italian  servants  went  to  St. 
Peter's  that  day.  Yet  they  commonly  speak  kindly 
of  Pius.  I  have  heard  the  same  phrase  from  several 
Italians  of  the  working-class.  "He  is  a  good  man," 
they  said,  "but  ill-led." 

What  one  sees  in  the  streets  of  Rome  is  worth  more 
than  what  one  sees  in  the  churches.  The  churches 
themselves  are  generally  ugly.  St.  Peter's  has 


1 98  FIRESIDE    TRAVELS. 

crushed  all  the  life  out  of  architectural  genius,  and 
all  the  modern  churches  look  as  if  they  were  swelling 
themselves  in  imitation  of  the  great  Basilica.  There 
is  a  clumsy  magnificence  about  them,  and  their 
heaviness  oppresses  you.  Their  marble  incrusta 
tions  look  like  a  kind  of  architectural  elephantiasis, 
and  the  parts  are  puffy  with  a  dropsical  want  of  pro 
portion.  There  is  none  of  the  spring  and  soar  which 
one  may  see  even  in  the  Lombard  churches,  and  a 
Roman  column  standing  near  one  of  them,  slim  and 
gentleman-like,  satirizes  silently  their  tawdry  parcenu- 
ism.  Attempts  at  mere  bigness  are  ridiculous  in  a 
city  where  the  Colosseum  still  yawns  in  crater-like 
ruin,  and  where  Michael  Angelo  made  a  noble  church 
out  of  a  single  room  in  Diocletian's  baths. 

Shall  I  confess  it?  Michael  Angelo  seems  to  me, 
in  his  angry  reaction  against  sentimental  beauty,  to 
have  mistaken  bulk  and  brawn  for  the  antithesis  of 
feebleness.  He  is  the  apostle  of  the  exaggerated,  the 
Victor  Hugo  of  painting  and  sculpture.  I  have  a 
feeling  that  rivalry  was  a  more  powerful  motive  with 
him  than  love  of  art,  that  he  had  the  conscious  inten 
tion  to  be  original,  which  seldom  leads  to  anything 
better  than  being  extravagant.  The  show  of  muscle 
proves  strength,  not  power;  and  force  for  mere  force's 
sake  in  an  makes  one  think  of  Milo  caught  in  his  own 
log.  This  is  my  second  thought,  and  strikes  me  as 
perhaps  somewhat  niggardly  toward  one  in  whom 
you  cannot  help  feeling  there  was  so  vast  a  possibility. 
And  then  his  Eve,  his  David,  his  Sibyls,  his  Prophets, 
his  Sonnets  !  Well,  I  take  it  all  back,  and  come  round 


A   FEW  BITS    OF  It  OMAN  MOSAIC.     199 

to  St.  Peter's  again  just  to  hint  that  I  doubt  about 
domes.  In  Rome  they  are  so  much  the  fashion  that 
I  felt  as  if  they  were  the  goitre  of  architecture.  Gen 
erally  they  look  heavy.  Those  on  St.  Mark's  in  Ven 
ice  are  the  only  light  ones  I  ever  saw,  and  they  look 
almost  airy,  like  tents  puffed  out  with  wind.  I  sup 
pose  one  must  be  satisfied  with  the  interior  effect, 
which  is  certainly  noble  in  St.  Peter's.  But  for  im- 
pressiveness  both  within  and  without  there  is  nothing 
like  a  Gothic  cathedral  for  me,  nothing  that  crowns 
a  city  so  nobly,  or  makes  such  an  island  of  twilight 
silence  in  the  midst  of  its  noonday  clamors. 

Now  as  to  what  one  sees  in  the  streets,  the  beggars 
are  certainly  the  first  things  that  draw  the  eye.  Beg- 
•  gary  is  an  institution  here.  The  Church  has  sancti 
fied  it  by  the  establishment  of  mendicant  orders,  and 
indeed  it  is  the  natural  result  of  a  social  system  where 
the  non-producing  class  makes  not  only  the  laws,  but 
the  ideas.  The  beggars  of  Rome  go  far  toward  prov 
ing  the  diversity  of  origin  in  mankind,  for  on  them 
surely  the  curse  of  Adam  never  fell.  It  is  easier  to 
fancy  that  Adam  Vaurien,  the  first  tenant  of  the  Fool's 
Paradise,  after  sucking  his  thumbs  for  a  thousand 
years,  took  to  wife  Eve  Faniente,  and  became  the 
progenitor  of  this  race,  to  whom  also  he  left  a  calendar 
in  which  three  hundred  and  sixty-five  days  in  the  year 
were  made  feasts,  sacred  from  all  secular  labor. 
Accordingly,  they  not  merely  do  nothing,  but  they  do 
it  assiduously  and  almost  with  religious  fervor.  I 
have  seen  ancient  members  of  this  sect  as  constant  at 
their  accustomed  street-corner  as  the  bit  of  broken 


200  FIRESIDE    TRAVELS. 

column  on  which  they  sat ;  and  when  a  man  does  this 
in  rainy  weather,  as  rainy  weather  is  in  Rome,  he  has 
the  spirit  of  a  fanatic  and  martyr. 

It  is  not  that  the  Italians  are  a  lazy  people.  On  the 
contrary,  I  am  satisfied  that  they  are  industrious  so 
far  as  they  are  allowed  to  be.  But,  as  I  said  before, 
when  a  Roman  does  nothing,  he  does  it  in  the  high 
Roman  fashion.  A  friend  of  mine  was  having  on  • 
of  his  rooms  arranged  for  a  private  theatre,  and  sent 
for  a  person  who  was  said  to  be  an  expert  in  the  busi 
ness  to  do  it  for  him.  After  a  day's  trial,  he  was  sit- 
isfied  that  his  lieutenant  was  rather  a  hindrance  than 
a  help,  and  resolved  to  dismiss  him. 

"What  is  your  charge  for  your  day's  services?" 

"Two  scudi,  sir." 

"Two  scudi!  Five  pauls  would  be  too  much. 
You  have  done  nothing  but  stand  with  your  hands 
in  your  pockets  and  get  in  the  way  of  other  people." 

"Lordship  is  perfectly  right;  but  that  is  my  way  of 
working." 

It  is  impossible  for  a  stranger  to  say  who  may  not 
beg  in  Rome.  It  seems  to  be  a  sudden  madness  that 
may  seize  any  one  at  the  sight  of  a  foreigner.  You 
see  a  very  respectable  looking  person  in  the  street, 
and  it  is  odds  but,  as  you  pass  him,  his  hat  comes  off, 
his  whole  figure  suddenly  dilapidates  itself,  assuming 
a  tremble  of  professional  weakness,  and  you  hear  the 
everlasting  qualche  cosa  per  carita?  You  are  in 
doubt  whether  to  drop  a  bajoccho  into  the  next  car 
dinal's  hat  which  offers  you  its  sacred  cavity  in  answer 
to  your  salute.  You  begin  to  believe  that  the  hat  was 


A   FEW  BITS    OF  ROMAN  MOSAIC.     2OI 

invented  for  the  sole  purpose  of  ingulfing  coppers,  and 
that  its  highest  type  is  the  great  Triregno  itself,  into 
which  the  pence  of  Peter  rattle. 

But  you  soon  learn  to  distinguish  the  established 
beggars,  and  to  the  three  professions  elsewhere  con 
sidered  liberal  you  add  a  fourth  for  this  latitude,  — 
mendicancy.  Its  professors  look  upon  themselves  as 
a  kind  of  guild  which  ought  to  be  protected  by  the 
government.  I  fell  into  talk  with  a  woman  who 
begged  of  me  in  the  Colosseum.  Among  other  things 
she  complained  that  the  government  did  not  at  all 
consider  the  poor. 

"Where  is  the  government  that  does?"   I  said. 

uEh  gia!  Excellency;  but  this  government  lets 
beggars  from  the  country  come  into  Rome,  which  is 
a  great  injury  to  the  trade  of  us  born  Romans.  There 
is  Beppo,  for  example ;  he  is  a  man  of  property  in  his 
own  town,  and  has  a  dinner  of  three  courses  every 
day.  He  has  portioned  two  daughters  with  three 
thousand  scudi  each,  and  left  Rome  during  the  time 
of  the  Republic  with  the  rest  of  the  nobility." 

At  first,  one  is  shocked  and  pained  at  the  exhibition 
of  deformities  in  the  street.  But  by  and  by  he  comes 
to  look  upon  them  with  little  more  emotion  than  is 
excited  by  seeing  the  tools  of  any  other  trade.  The 
melancholy  of  the  beggars  is  purely  a  matter  of  busi 
ness;  and  they  look  upon  their  maims  as  Fortunatus 
purses,  which  will  always  give  them  money.  A 
withered  arm  they  present  to  you  as  a  highwayman 
would  his  pistol;  a  goitre  is  a  life-annuity;  a  St. 
Vitus  dance  is  as  good  as  an  engagement  as  prima 


202  FIRESIDE    TRAVELS. 

ballerina  at  the  Apollo;  and  to  have  no  legs  at  all  is 
to  stand  on  the  best  footing  with  fortune.  They  are 
a  merry  race,  on  the  whole,  and  quick-witted,  like  the 
rest  of  their  countrymen.  I  believe  the  regular  fee 
for  a  beggar  is  a  quattrino,  about  a  quarter  of  a  cent; 
but  they  expect  more  of  foreigners.  A  friend  of  mine 
once  gave  one  of  these  tiny  coins  to  an  old  woman; 
she  delicately  expressed  her  resentment  by  exclaim 
ing,  "Thanks,  signoria.  God  will  reward  even  you  !" 

A  begging  friar  came  to  me  one  day  with  a  sub 
scription  for  repairing  his  convent.  "Ah,  but  I  am 
a  heretic,"  said  I.  "Undoubtedly,"  with  a  shrug, 
implying  a  respectful  acknowledgment  of  a  foreigner's 
right  to  choose  warm  and  dry  lodgings  in  the  other 
world  as  well  as  in  this,  "but  your  money  is  perfectly 
orthodox." 

Another  favorite  way  of  doing  nothing  is  to  exca 
vate  the  Forum.  I  think  the  Fanientes  like  this  all 
the  better,  because  it  seems  a  kind  of  satire  upon  work, 
as  the  witches  parody  the  Christian  offices  of  devotion 
at  their  Sabbath.  A  score  or  so  of  old  men  in  volu 
minous  cloaks  shift  the  earth  from  one  side  of  a  large 
pit  to  the  other,  in  a  manner  so  leisurely  that  it  is  posi 
tive  repose  to  look  at  them.  The  most  bigoted  anti- 
Fourierist  might  acknowledge  this  to  be  attractive 
industry. 

One  conscript  father  trails  a  small  barrow  up  to 
another,  who  stands  leaning  on  a  long  spade.  Ar 
riving,  he  fumbles  for  his  snuff-box,  and  offers  it  de 
liberately  to  his  friend.  Each  takes  an  ample  pinch, 
and  both  seat  themselves  to  await  the  result.  If  one 


A    FEW  BITS    OF  ROMAN  MOSAIC.     2O3 

should  sneeze,  he  receives  the  Felicita!  of  the  other; 
and,  after  allowing  the  titillation  to  subside,  he  re 
plies,  Grazia  !  Then  follows  a  little  conversation,  and 
then  they  prepare  to  load.  But  it  occurs  to  the 
barrow-driver  that  this  is  a  good  opportunity  to  fill 
and  light  his  pipe ;  and  to  do  so  conveniently  he  needs 
his  barrow  to  sit  upon.  He  draws  a  few  whiffs,  and 
a  little  more  conversation  takes  place.  The  barrow 
is  now  ready;  but  first  the  wielder  of  the  spade  will 
fill  his  pipe  also.  This  done,  more  whiffs  and  more 
conversation.  Then  a  spoonful  of  earth  is  thrown 
into  the  barrow,  and  it  starts  on  its  return.  But 
midway  it  meets  an  empty  barrow,  and  both  stop  to 
go  through  the  snuff-box  ceremonial  once  more,  and 
to  discuss  whatever  new  thing  has  occurred  in  the 
excavation  since  their  last  encounter.  And  so  it  goes 
on  all  day. 

As  I  see  more  of  material  antiquity,  I  begin  to 
suspect  that  my  interest  in  it  is  mostly  factitious.  The 
relations  of  races  to  the  physical  world  (only  to  be 
studied  fruitfully  on  the  spot)  do  not  excite  in  me  an 
interest  at  all  proportionate  to  that  I  feel  in  their  in 
fluence  on  the  moral  advance  of  mankind,  which  one 
may  as  easily  trace  in  his  own  library  as  on  the  spot. 
The  only  useful  remark  I  remember  to  have  made 
here  is,  that,  the  situation  of  Rome  being  far  less 
strong  than  that  of  any  city  of  the  Etruscan  league,  it 
must  have  been  built  where  it  is  for  purposes  of  com 
merce.  It  is  the  most  defensible  point  near  the  mouth 
of  the  Tiber.  It  is  only  as  rival  trades-folk  that  Rome 


2O4  FIRESIDE    TRAVELS. 

and  Carthage  had  any  comprehensible  cause  of  quar 
rel.  It  is  only  as  a  commercial  people  that  we  can 
understand  the  early  tendency  of  the  Romans  towards 
democracy.  As  for  antiquity,  after  reading  history, 
one  is  haunted  by  a  discomforting  suspicion  that  the 
names  so  painfully  deciphered  in  hieroglyphic  or 
arrow-head  inscriptions  are  only  so  many  more 
Smiths  and  Browns  masking  it  in  unknown  tongues. 
Moreover,  if  we  Yankees  are  twitted  with  not  know 
ing  the  difference  between  big  and  great,  may  not 
those  of  us  who  have  learned  it  turn  round  on  many 
a  monument  over  here  with  the  same  reproach?  I 
confess  I  am  beginning  to  sympathize  with  a  country 
man  of  ours  from  Michigan,  who  asked  our  Minister 
to  direct  him  to  a  specimen  ruin  and  a  specimen  gallery, 
that  he  might  see  and  be  rid  of  them  once  for  all.  I 
saw  three  young  Englishmen  going  through  the  Vati 
can  by  catalogue  and  number,  the  other  day,  in  a 
fashion  which  John  Bull  is  apt  to  consider  exclusively 
American.  "Number  300!"  says  the  one  with  cata 
logue  and  pencil,  "have  you  seen  it?"  "Yes," 
answer  his  two  comrades,  and,  checking  it  off,  he 
goes  on  with  Number  301.  Having  witnessed  the 
unavailing  agonies  of  many  Anglo-Saxons  from  both 
sides  of  the  Atlantic  in  their  effort  to  have  the  correct 
sensation  before  many  hideous  examples  of  antique 
bad  taste,  my  heart  warmed  toward  my  business-like 
British  cousins,  who  were  doing  their  aesthetics  in  this 
thrifty  auctioneer  fashion.  Our  cart-before-horse 
education,  which  makes  us  more  familiar  with  the 
history  and  literature  of  Greeks  and  Romans  than  with 


A   FEW  BITS    OF  ROMAN  MOSAIC.     2OS 

those  of  our  own  ancestry,  (though  there  is  nothing  in 
ancient  art  to  match  Shakespeare  or  a  Gothic  min 
ster,)  makes  us  the  gulls  of  what  we  call  classical 
antiquity.  In  sculpture,  to  be  sure,  they  have  us  on 
the  hip.  Europe  were  worth  visiting,  if  only  to  be 
rid  of  this  one  old  man  of  the  sea. 

I  am  not  ashamed  to  confess  a  singular  sympathy 
with  what  are  known  as  the  Middle  Ages.  I  cannot 
help  thinking  that  few  periods  have  left  behind  them 
such  traces  of  inventiveness  and  power.  Nothing 
is  more  tiresome  than  the  sameness  of  modern  cities; 
and  it  has  often  struck  me  that  this  must  also  have 
been  true  of  those  ancient  ones  in  which  Greek  archi 
tecture  or  its  derivatives  prevailed,  —  true  at  least 
as  respects  public  buildings.  But  mediaeval  towns, 
especially  in  Italy,  even  when  only  fifty  miles  asunder, 
have  an  individuality  of  character  as  marked  as  that 
of  trees.  Nor  is  it  merely  this  originality  that  attracts 
me,  but  likewise  the  sense  that,  however  old,  they  are 
nearer  to  me  in  being  modern  and  Christian.  I  find 
it  harder  to  bridge  over  the  gulf  of  Paganism  than  of 
centuries.  Apart  from  any  difference  in  the  men,  I 
had  a  far  deeper  emotion  when  I  stood  on  the  Sasso 
di  Dante,  than  at  Horace's  Sabine  farm  or  by  the  tomb 
of  Virgil.  The  latter,  indeed,  interested  me  chiefly 
by  its  association  with  comparatively  modern  legend; 
and  one  of  the  buildings  I  am  most  glad  to  have  seen 
in  Rome  is  the  Bear  Inn,  where  Montaigne  lodged  on 
his  arrival. 

I  think  it  must  have  been  for  some  such  reason  that 
T  liked  my  Florentine  better  than  my  Roman  walks, 


206  FIRESIDE    TRAVELS. 

though  I  am  vastly  more  contented  with  merely  being 
in  Rome.  Florence  is  more  noisy;  indeed,  I  think 
it  the  noisiest  town  I  was  ever  in.  What  with  the 
continual  jangling  of  its  bells,  the  rattle  of  Austrian 
drums,  and  the  street-cries,  Ancora  mi  raccapriccia. 
The  Italians  are  a  vociferous  people,  and  most  so 
among  the  Florentines.  Walking  through  a  back 
street  one  day,  I  saw  an  old  woman  higgling  with  a 
peripatetic  dealer,  who,  at  every  interval  afforded  him 
by  the  remarks  of  his  veteran  antagonist,  would  tip 
his  head  on  one  side,  and  shout,  with  a  kind  of  won 
dering  enthusiasm,  as  if  he  could  hardly  trust  the 
evidence  of  his  own  senses  to  such  loveliness,  O,  che 
bellezza!  che  belle-e-ezza !  The  two  had  been  con 
tending  as  obstinately  as  the  Greeks  and  Trojans 
over  the  body  of  Patroclus,  and  I  was  curious  to  know 
what  was  the  object  of  so  much  desire  on  the  one  side 
and  admiration  on  the  other.  It  was  a  half-dozen 
of  weazeny  baked  pears,  beggarly  remnant  of  the 
day's  traffic.  Another  time  I  stopped  before  a  stall, 
debating  whether  to  buy  some  fine-looking  peaches. 
Before  I  had  made  up  my  mind,  the  vender,  a  stout 
fellow,  with  a  voice  like  a  prize-bull  of  Bashan,  opened 
a  mouth  round  and  large  as  the  muzzle  of  a  blunder 
buss,  and  let  fly  into  my  ear  the  following  pertinent 
observation:  "Belle  pesche!  belle  pe-e-esche!"  (cres 
cendo).  I  stared  at  him  in  stunned  bewilderment; 
but,  seeing  that  he  had  reloaded  and  was  about  to  fire 
again,  took  to  my  heels,  the  exploded  syllables  rattling 
after  me  like  so  many  buckshot.  A  single  turnip  is 
argument  enough  with  them  till  midnight;  nay,  I 


A    FEW  BITS   OF  ROMAN  MOSAIC.     2O/ 

have  heard  a  ruffian  yelling  over  a  covered  basket, 
which,  I  am  convinced,  was  empty,  and  only  carried 
as  an  excuse  for  his  stupendous  vocalism.  It  never 
struck  me  before  what  a  quiet  people  Americans  are. 
Of  the  pleasant  places  within  easy  walk  of  Rome,  I 
prefer  the  garden  of  the  Villa  Albani  as  being  most 
Italian.  One  does  not  go  to  Italy  for  examples  of 
Price  on  the  Picturesque.  Compared  with  land 
scape-gardening,  it  is  Racine  to  Shakespeare,  I  grant; 
but  it  has  its  own  charm,  nevertheless.  I  like  the 
balustraded  terraces,  the  sun -proof  laurel  walks,  the 
vases  and  statues.  It  is  only  in  such  a  climate  that  it 
does  not  seem  inhuman  to  thrust  a  naked  statue  out 
of  doors.  Not  to  speak  of  their  incongruity,  how 
dreary  do  those  white  figures  look  at  Fountains  Abbey 
in  that  shrewd  Yorkshire  atmosphere !  To  put  them 
there  shows  the  same  bad  taste  that  led  Prince  Polonia, 
as  Thackeray  calls  him,  to  build  an  artificial  ruin 
within  a  mile  of  Rome.  But  I  doubt  if  the  Italian 
garden  will  bear  transplantation.  Farther  north,  or 
under  a  less  constant  sunshine,  it  is  but  half-hardy  at 
the  best.  Within  the  city,  the  garden  of  the  French 
Academy  is  my  favorite  retreat,  because  little  fre 
quented;  and  there  is  an  arbor  there  in  which  I  have 
read  comfortably  (sitting  where  the  sun  could  reach 
me)  in  January.  By  the  way,  there  is  something  very 
agreeable  in  the  way  these  people  have  of  making  a 
kind  of  fireside  of  the  sunshine.  With  us  it  is  either 
too  hot  or  too  cool,  or  we  are  too  busy.  But,  on  the 
other  hand,  they  have  no  such  thing  as  a  chimney- 
corner. 


2C8  FIRESIDE    TRAVELS. 

Of  course  I  haunt  the  collections  of  art  faithfully; 
.  but  my  favorite  gallery,  after  all,  is  the  street.  There 
\  I  always  find  something  entertaining,  at  least.  The 
i  other  day,  on  my  way  to  the  Colonna  Palace,  I  passed 
the  Fountain  of  Trevi,  from  which  the  water  is  now 
shut  off  on  account  of  repairs  to  the  aqueduct.  A 
scanty  rill  of  soap-sudsy  water  still  trickled  from  one 
of  the  conduits,  and,  seeing  a  crowd,  I  stopped  to  find 
out  what  nothing  or  other  had  gathered  it.  One 
charm  of  Rome,  is  that  nobody  has  anything  in  par 
ticular  to  do,  or,  if  he  has,  can  always  stop  doing  it  on 
the  slightest  pretext.  I  found  that  some  eels  had  been 
discovered,  and  a  very  vivacious  hunt  was  going  on, 
the  chief  Nimrods  being  boys.  I  happened  to  be  the 
first  to  see  a  huge  eel  wriggling  from  the  mouth  of  a 
pipe,  and  pointed  him  out.  Two  lads  at  once  rushed 
upon  him.  One  essayed  the  capture  with  his  naked 
hands,  the  other,  more  provident,  had  armed  him 
self  with  a  rag  of  woollen  cloth  with  which  to  maintain 
his  grip  more  securely.  Hardly  had  this  latter  ar 
rested  his  slippery  prize,  when  a  ragged  rascal,  watch 
ing  his  opportunity,  snatched  away  the  prize,  and 
instantly  secured  it  by  thrusting  the  head  into  his 
mouth,  and  closing  on  it  a  set  of  teeth  like  an  ivory 
vice.  But  alas  for  ill -got  gain !  Rob  Roy's 

"  Good  old  plan, 

That  he  should  take  who  has  the  power 
And  he  should  keep  who  can," 

did  not  serve  here.  There  is  scarce  a  square  rood 
in  Rome  without  one  or  more  stately  cocked  hats  in  it, 
emblems  of  authority  and  police.  I  saw  the  flash  of 


A   FEW  BITS    OF  ROMAN  MOSAIC.     2OQ 

the  snow-white  cross-belts,  gleaming  through  that 
dingy  crowd  like  the  panache  of  Henry  Quatre  at 
Ivry,  I  saw  the  mad  plunge  of  the  canvas-shielded 
head-piece,  sacred  and  terrible  as  that  of  Gessler; 
and  while  the  greedy  throng  were  dancing  about  the 
anguilliceps,  each  taking  his  chance  twitch  at  the 
undulating  object  of  all  wishes,  the  captor  dodging 
his  head  hither  and  thither,  (vulnerable,  like  Achilles, 
only  in  his  'eel,  as  a  British  tourist  would  say,)  a  pair 
of  broad  blue  shoulders  parted  the  assailants  as  a 
ship's  bows  part  a  wave,  a  pair  of  blue  arms,  ter 
minating  in  gloves  of  Berlin  thread,  were  stretched 
forth,  not  in  benediction,  one  hand  grasped  the 
slippery  Briseis  by  the  waist,  the  other  bestowed  a 
cuff  on  the  jaw-bone  of  Achilles,  which  loosened 
(rather  by  its  authority  than  its  physical  force)  the 
hitherto  refractory  incisors,  a  snuffy  bandanna  was 
produced,  the  prisoner  was  deposited  in  this  tempo 
rary  watch-house,  and  the  cocked  hat  sailed  majes 
tically  away  with  the  property  thus  sequestered  for 
the  benefit  of  the  state. 

"  Gaudeant  anguillse  si  mortuus  sit  homo  illo, 
Qui,  quasi  morte  reas,  excruciabat  eas!  " 

If  you  have  got  through  that  last  sentence  without 
stopping  for  breath,  you  are  fit  to  begin  on  the  Homer 
of  Chapman,  who,  both  as  translator  and  author,  has 
the  longest  wind,  (especially  for  a  comparison,)  with 
out  being  long-winded,  of  all  writers  I  know  anything 
of,  not  excepting  Jeremy  Taylor. 


OVERDUE. 


.'590  f 





61979 


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